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Vol. 20. No. 958. May 3, 1887. Aiimitil Subscription, $30.00. 


SABINA 

ZEMBRA 


WILLIAM BLACK 

Author of “A PRINCESS OF THULE, 
“MACLEOD OF DARE,” Etc., Etc. 


Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., as second-class matter. 
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SABINA ZEMBRA 



WILLIAM BLACK 

AUTHOR OF “A PRINCESS OF THULE,” “ MACLEOD OF DARE,” ETC., ETC. 


! 

I 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street 






SABINA ZEMBRA 


BY WILLIAM BLACK. 


CHAPTER I. 

SIRANTHONY. 

On a certain Wednesday afternoon in March, the bill- 
iard room of the Wal degrave Club, Pall Mall, was the 
scene of a remarkable occurrence. The Waldegrave, it 
may be said, parenthetically, is held in much veneration 
by our country cousins as the headquarters of a great po- 
litical party ; there the chiefs of that party are supposed to 
meet and direct the operations of a general election; 
thither impecunious candidates look for the sinews of war; 
and the honor of its membership is understood to be the 
crowning glory and reward of him who has wooed and 
won over to tiie cause a doubtful constituency. All this 
may be so, or it may not be so, but to the Londoner, and 
especially to the London diner-out, the Waldegrave is 
chiefly known for its noble hall and its stately galleries, its 
excellent cuisine and cellar, its pleasant outlook into Carl- 
ton Gardens, and the proportions and decoration of its 
library, which is far and away the most beautiful room in 
Europe. 

As for the more modest apartment in which this re- 
markable occurrence took place, no visitor is allowed to 
enter within its door, which may account for the rumor 
that the proceedings there are not always conducted with a 
dignity and repose befitting the fame and name of so 
notable a club. Indeed, it has been affirmed (but doubt- 
less by political enemies) that the pool-players of the 
Waldegrave, safe in the friendly secrecy of that upper 
chamber, occassionally, and even frequently, break out into 
wild revelry: that derisive cheers overwhelm the “snig- 
gler;” that groans of execration bring the “fluker” to 
open shame; and that the timid and nervous player is 
frightened out of his wits by the sudden cry that he has 
“missed the ball!” However, these stories are probably 


4 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

not true ; the rancor of party strife is capable of inventing 
anything; and it would be a pity if the constituencies were 
to believe that the Waldegrave is anything other than 
what it really is— that is to say, a great and decorous 
political institution. 

On the afternoon in q^uestion, one of the members of the 
club went up to the billiard-room, opened the door, and 
went in, greeting pleasantly this one and the other of his 
acquaintances as he passed them. He was a tall man, of 
about sixty; handsome and well dressed; fresh -complex- 
ioned and white-haired; of debonair look and bland ex- 
pression; and evidently very well pleased with himself. 
This was Sir Anthony Zembra, senior member for one of 
the big manufacturing towns in the north ; a man of enor- 
mous wealth ; a writer of pamphlets on currency and free- 
trade and kindred questions; an active and industrious 
politician, who might fairly hope to be invited to join the 
government, in a subordinate capacity, one of these days ; 
and socially— well, socially, the most detested man in Lon- 
don. But how could he help that? No one could have ex- 
plained why he was so detested ; he himself did not know 
it; nay, it would have been impossible for h: n to grasp 
the idea. Eich, handsome, bland of manner; his wife ^ 
queen of fashion; his dinners quite famous for their excel- 
lence-how could he be detested? No, that was the last 
idea that could have gained admission into Sir Anthony 
Zembra’ s head. 

“ I will take a ball, marker,” he said; for they were just 
beginning a new game. 

“ Right, sir.” 

The new-comer walked up to the little mahogany box 
and deposited the shilling claimed by the pool; then he 
proceeded to get down his cue from its tin case. The 
marker gave out the balls. 

‘‘Red on white— yellow’s your player.” The game had 
begun. 

‘‘ What ball am I, marker?” 

‘‘ Blue, Sir Anthony; the ball is in the pocket.” 

“Who plays on me?” 

“Mr. Herschell,” said the marker, naming the noto- 
riously best player in the club. 

And now occurred the incident to which reference has 
been made. 

“Oh, look here, that won’t do at all,” exclaimed Sir 
Anthony. “Why, I sha’n’t have a chance. Tliat won’t 
do. Herschell, do you play on me? Well, I’m out; I’m 
not going to give you three lives for nothing. 

“You may withdraw your ball if you like, Sir Anthony,” 
observed the marker. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


5 


“ Why, of course I do. Mr. Herschell’s too good for me.” 

“ The blue ball is withdrawn,” the marker said, shutting 
up the three lives on the board ; and then he was about to 
call the game, when Sir Anthony interrupted him. 

“Come along, marker, give me that shilling out.” 

The marker seemed surprised, but he said, quite re- 
spectfully. 

“No, sir, you can’t have the shilling out. You may 
withdraw your ball, but the shilling is in the pool; you 
can’t have that back.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” called out Sir Anthony, with a kind of 
stormy good-nature. “Nonsense! I haven’t played. I’m 
not in the game. Do you think I’m going to let them play 
for my money? Come, out with that shilling!” 

The marker was helpless ; he could only look at the other 
members in an appealing sort of way. And they looked 
at one another; for nothing of the kind had happened in 
the club before — no, nor in any other club, most likely. 
Then came muttered protests, some angry, some half- 
ashamed. 

“No, no, you can’t have the shilling out — forfeited to 
the pool— yqu joined in the game when you took a ball — 
the rule of the game— the marker’s quite right— you can’t 
interfere with the pool.” 

“Oh, but can’t I?” he said, with a good-humored 
laugh. “ Do you think I’m going to let you play for my 
money when I’m not in the game? — you thieves and rob- 
bers!” 

And therewithal he jauntily went up to the mahogany 
box and took out the shilling and put it in his pocket. 
Then he proceeded to replace his cue in its case, and as he 
walked to the door he shook his forefinger in a waggish 
manner at the old gentleman whose superior skill had in- 
duced him to withdraw from the game. 

“ You old rascal,” he said playfully, “ you thought you 
were going to have an easy victim. No, no, not to-day, 
thank you.” 

They made no reply, no protest ; the magnificence of the 
man’s meanness, and of his sel^complacency, were too 
appalling; when he had shut the door a kind of awe-struck 
silence fell over the room, and they looked at each other in 
dumb amazement. 

“Green plays on yellow!” the marker called; and this 
awoke them from their trance; and then, as the game went 
on, there were questions asked as to the probable dimen- 
sions of Sir Anthony Zembra’s fortune, and the bigger the 
figures the greater the disgust. But there was little said, 
for the marker was wdthin hearing. 

Meanwhile, Sir Anthony, suave, radiant, complacent— 


6 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


and certainly little dreaming that he had just conferred a 
favor on some eight or ten oi his feliow -creatures in giving 
them something they could definitely produce as a reason 
for hating him— Sir Anthony, bland, smiling, and debonair, 
went down through the hall of the club. Perhaps the nod 
which he bestowed on his intimates had just a touch of 
patronage in it; but how could that very well be helped? 
His life had been all through so prosperous and successful 
and satisfactory. His first wife had died as soon as she 
grew ugly; his second was good-tempered, except when he 
wanted the carriage in the afternoon ; the Times printed 
his letters in leaded type ; his digestion enabled him to eat 
even a House of Commons dinner with equanimity; and 
his constituents believed him when he told lies about pre- 
vious engagements. The old woman who sweeps the cross- 
ing at the corner of St. James’ Square courtesied lower to 
him than to anybody else; though never a penny had he 
bestowed on her. In St. James’ Street the cabmen had to 
look out for him, not he for them ; he went out into the 
open thoroughfare with a charming nonchalance, glancing 
neither to the left nor to the right. And so, eventually, 
he made his way home, to a big house in Lancaster Gate; 
and he walked the whole distance, for Lady Zembra had 
possession of the carriage, and he did not care to spend 
money on a hansom. Besides, his appearance was much 
admired (and he knew it) as he strode along Piccadilly and 
up through the Park. 

He let himself in with a latch-key. The house was very 
quiet, insomuch that a faint murmur coming from the 
school room was distinctly aubible. And as the door of 
the room was open an inch or two. Sir Anthony thought he 
might as well pause there and discover whether the 
governess were doing her duty— for this was one of the 
afternoons on which nothing but French was allowed to be 
spoken— and it was Miss Renshaw’s business to impose a 
fine of threepence for any lapse. However, everything 
seemed going on w^ell. Master Reginald (his father could 
hear) was reading aloud a composition of his own. It was 
a description of tlie character and conduct of a dog belong- 
ing to a public-house in the Bayswater Road — “Ungros 
chien qui appartenit a une maison publique dans le Bays- 
water Road,’’ was the youthful scholar’s rendering; and 
apparently that animal had not found much favor in the 
eyes of the narrator. But presently other sounds smote 
the listener’s ear. A squabble had arisen somewhere. 
“ Voyez, voyez, mademoiselle, il a fait pour mon dessin!” 
“Non, non — ce n’etait pas moi — ne mentez vous pas — je 
vous donnerai— vous donnerai— une boite sur I’oreille.” 
;:;ir Anthony thought this an opportune moment. He 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


7 


opened the door and entered, and there was instant silence. 
But he did not remonstrate or scold ; it was enough that 
Miss Renshaw should see how his mere presence — his 
presence, without a look or a word — could produce calm. 

“Have you looked through to-day’s newspapers yet, 
Miss Renshaw?” said he, as he strolled up to the chim- 
ney-piece and lifted therefrom a pass-book labeled on the 
outside ‘ ‘ Domestic. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Sir Anthony, except those that came this after- 
noon,” said the patient-looking, gray-faced young woman 
sitting there. 

And of these desultory paragraphs that he was now 
scanning with much complacent interest, who could guess 
at the authorship? Perhaps the patient-eyed young person 
who had that morning carefully clipped them out of the 
various journals and pasted them in the pass-book had 
also herself inspired them, or even written them out, for 
the information of provincial editors? At all events, they 
showed a remarkable familiarity with the comings and go- 
ings of the Zembra family, and also a kind of pathetic as- 
sumption that these, and the smallest details about them, 
must be of keen interest to the British public. Here are 
some of them : 

“ Lady Zembra and Miss Florence Zembra will shortly 
leave Lancaster Gate on a visit to Lord and Lady Peters- 
held at their beautiful place near Marlow.” 

“At the marriage of Miss Emily Vere and Colonel Lang- 
ley, last week, the costume of Master Reginald Zembra, 
who was dressed as a page of the time of Henry VIII., was 
much admired. The design of the costume, we under- 
stand, was presented to Lady Zembra by a distinguished 
academician.” 

“The Chapel Royal, St. James’, was on Sunday last 
crowded to excess to hear a sermon by the Bishop of 
Truro. Lady Zembra and her daughters were among the 
congregation.” 

“At the drawing-room held by the Princess of Wales on 
Thursday, no costume was more remarked and admired 
than that cf Lady Zembra. Her ladyship wore a train 
from the shoulder, of crimson Lyons velvet, lined with 
pink merveilleux, and trimmed with clusters of pink and 
crimson ostrich feathers, tied with ribbons of the same 
color. Her bodice was of pink merv, over a petticoat of 
the same material, draped with embroidered crepe de 
Chine, and finished at the bottom with handsome chenille 
fringe.” 

“Sir Anthony and Lady Zembra, and the Misses Flor- 
ence and Gertrude Zembra, were present at the lecture 


8 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


given by Dr. Felthurst on Wednesday, at Princess Hall, 
Piccadilly. Her ladyship formed quite a distinct figure 
among the assembly, although merely unostentatiously 
occupying a seat with her husband and daughters in the 
body of the hall.” 

But all these were as nothing to the description of a chil- 
dren’s fancy-dress ball, given the week before by a sister- 
in-law of Sir Anthony’s, at which all the Zembra family 
(except one, whose acquaintance we will make by and by) 
appeared to have been present; and very pretty and nice 
were the things which the faithful chronicler had to say 
about every one of them. It must have been a gay scene, 
according to this flattering account. Every one looked at 
his or her best; the costumes were charming; Lady Zem- 
bra was especially admired as Marie Antoinette ; and Sir 
Anthony Zembra, as a courtier of the time of George II., 
was a most picturesque and striking figure. It was a great 
success, in short ; and never had the ballroom at the Red 
House, Campden Hill, presented so beautiful a sight as 
when the children were ranged in two long rows to dance 
Sir Roger de Coverley. 

Well, Sir Anthony was thus pleasantly engaged in study- 
ing the social impression produced by the various mem- 
bers of his family when he was somewhat rudely inter- 
rupted. There was an unusual noise outside. Then the 
doors were flung wide open, and there entered hurriedly a 
tall young lady, who was very pale, but had sufficient 
firmness in the look of her clear-cut and beautiful face. 

“ Miss RenshaAv,” said she, quickly, “ will you take the 
children up stairs? I want this room. Take them to the 
night- nursery. ” 

“ What’s this, now?” Sir Anthony said, at once startled 
and angry at the sudden interruption. 

“There’s a man hurt,” his daughter answered him, 
quietly; but her fingers were quick enough in removing 
the things that lay strewn on a couch there. “They’re 
bringing him in.” 

“What?” he exclaimed again, and still more angrily; 
but there was a shuffling of footsteps outside, and the im- 
mediate answer was the appearance of a number of men, 
who were slowly and with difficulty carrying an appar- 
ently inanimate body along the passage. 

“Sabina, what is this? Who is this?” 

“ I don’t know, papa.” 

She was busy with many things. 

“Then what do you mean by bringing him in here? 
God bless my soul, what are you about? Send him to a 
hospital ! I say he must go to a hospital. Here, my men, 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 9 

what are you doing? Who told you to bring the man in 
here? He must go to the hospital ” 

“ The young lady, sir,” one of the men said. 

“Sabina, what is this?” her father again angrily de- 
manded. “I will have none of your Whitechapel non- 
sense here. Are you going to turn the house into a public 
shambles?” 

But Sabina had made her preparations during these few 
seconds. She caught her father’s arm for a moment, with 
a gesture of entreaty. 

“ Papa, I cannot send him to a hospital. This is all my 
doing. I am to blame for the accident— and— and there is 

no time to be lost; why, common humanity ” She 

turned to the footman, who was standing helplessly by. 
“ George, run down-stairs and fetch me a basin of water 
and a sponge, and some cloths; and send for Dr. Hunger- 
ford — no, Mr. Hungerford, I mean — the son— and tell him 
to come at once. And you — yes, bring him in, now; but 
gently — gently — the head a little higher up— yes, that will 
do;” and when they had got him laid on the couch, she, 
with her own fingers, and swiftly and dexterously, too, 
undid his necktie and removed his collar, and opened his 
waistcoat. It was clear to the most ignorant of the by- 
standers that this young lady knew very well what she 
was about. 

But as for Sir Anthony? Well, Sir Anthony stood look- 
ing on for a second or two, very much exasperated. But 
what could he do? He could not summon a policeman and 
have the whole pack of them thrust into the street ; it was 
his own daughter who had had the man brought in ; and, 
moreover, she said she was responsible for the accident; 
and it would not look well to quarrel with her before these 
people. He wished the wounded man was at Jericho; but 
he did not want to have these rude folk stare at him for 
what they would, doubtless, consider his inhumanity. 
But he was very angry with his daughter; and then, 
again, he did not like looking at a head and neck that were 
bedabbled with blood ; and the doctor would have more un- 
pleasant business when he arrived ; so, on the whole. Sir 
Anthony thought he might as well retire from that scene, 
only he was growling and grumbling to himself, as he 
passed up-stairs, about the midsummer madness of young 
women who, nowadays, went out and got themselves 
trained as nurses at the London Hospital. 

On the writing-desk of his study there was lying a pass- 
book labeled outside “Political;” and apparently his pri- 
vate secretary had done for him what the governess did for 
Lady Zembra and the family. As he glanced over these 
paragraphs — “Sir Anthony Zembra, we understand, has 


10 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


consented to take the chair at the next meeting of the 
Statistical Society ’’—‘‘Sir Anthony Zembra has given 
notice that on Thursday next he will ask the Secretary of 
State for the Home Department,” etc.— “Sir Anthony 
Zembra was present last evening at a dinner given at the 
official residence of the prime-minister in Downing Street ” 
— “ We understand that it is the intention of Sir Anthony 
Zembra’ s constituency to entertain him at a public ban- 
quet in May next “ The remarkable speech on the Land 
Question which Sir Anthony Zembra delivered in the 
House of Commons last week is, we understand, to be is- 
sued in the form of a pamphlet ’ ’—as lie read these and 
many similar paragraphs, Sir Anthony ’s brow cleared, and 
his face resumed its ordinary pleasant and complacent ex- 
pression, for he was glad to have his merits recognized, 
and he rather liked to contemplate himself in the mirror 
of the public press. 


CHAPTER II. 

SABIE. 

Sabina Zeivibra— Sabie, her intimate friends called her, 
and they seemed rather proud of displaying this familiar- 
ity; indeed, many of the women-folk down Kensington 
way, if you mentioned the name of Miss Zembra, would 
say, with a kind of air of distinction, “Oh, do you mean 
Sabie?” as if Sabie belonged to them and to them alone— 
Sabina Zembra was a tall young woman and fair; of up- 
right carriage and well-poised neck; with a clear, pale 
complexion, light brown eyes that were soft and benignant, 
and light-brown hair that burned gold in the sun. She 
was twenty -five, though a dimple in her cheek when she 
laughed made her look younger, and hinted that she was 
light-hearted enough; on the other hand, her ordinary ex- 
pression was of an almost maternal gentleness and gener- 
osity. The blandness that in her father was begotten of 
self-sufficiency became in her the blandness of grave good- 
will; she looked as if kindness w*ere a natural instinct with 
her; as if she liked seeing the people around her being 
made happy. 

But even this cannot wholly explain the extraordinary 
affection that women seemed to have for this woman ; they 
would cling around her when she entered a room and pet 
her with pretty names; and would send her flowers on any 
birthday or other excuse ; and would treasure her letters, 
and show them, and say with a touch of pride: “ Oh, Sabie 
has just been writing ; isn’t she the dearest and sweetest 
girl in the world?” “ I hope Sabie will never marry,” was 
the constant cry of her chief companion and friend (who, 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


11 


poor lass, had not much in the way of pretty looks to 
boast of). ‘‘ J ust think what her goodness, and her beauty, 
and her loving disposition mean to so many people; and 
think of her going and throwing all that away on a man!” 
Of course the men professed to laugh at this widespread 
and ridiculous infatuation; and declared that Miss Zembra 
was a woman’s woman, and nothing more; but at the 
same time it was observed, on the rare occasions on which 
Miss Zembra was to be found at an evening party, that 
these hostile critics were not nearly so careless of her 
society as in common consistency they ought to have been. 

Sabina did not live with her father. On a certain im 
portant occasion. Sir Anthony had taken her to task and 
spoken his mind clearly. 

‘‘Understand me once for all, Sabina,” he observed, in 
a more than ordinarilj^ sententious way. “ I am not in 
the habit of wasting words. What I say I mean to be 
final. Now, while you were merely busying yourself 
about industrial homes, and training ships, and things of 
that kind, I did not object; no, nor did I mind your 
visiting this or that poor family, where you knew the 
circumstances, and knew there was no infection. But this 
new fad is quite different. AVhat will happen after you 
come out of the hospital? You are not going in for six 
months’ training for nothing.” 

“ Papa,” she broke in, ‘‘I must do something— you don’t 
know how dreadful idleness is.” 

“I know that I don’t hear your sisters complain,” he 
retorted. ‘‘ They seem to have enough to fill the time.” 

‘‘Yes, but they care for quite different things,” she said; 
and then she added, with the slightest of demure smiles 
hovering about her mouth, ‘‘ Besides, they’re ashamed of 
me. Mamma says I’m a dowdy, and it’s quite true. I 
don’t care for fine dresses and driving in the park. And 
then, you see, papa, I shouldn’t mind playing the port of 
Cinderella — I shouldn’t mind it at all, for Cinderella had 
plenty to do and knew she w^as of some use ; but I know 
you wouldn’t like that. You wouldn’t like me to become 
one of the maids and sweep the kitchen.” 

“Sabina, this is not a joking matter,” Sir Anthony ob- 
served, shortly; “let us return to common-sense. When 
you leave the London Hospital a trained nurse, w'hat then? 
I know very well. You will be more than ever in the 
slums; you will be forever in the slums; and coming and 
going between them and this house. Well, now, that I 
cannot permit. It would not be right and just to the 
other members of my family to subject them to such a con- 
tinual risk of infection. It is not to be thought of.” 


12 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


“Then do you want me to clear out, papa?” she said, 
frankly. 

“Yes, if you will presist in this folly.” 

Well, she was a little bit startled, for a girl does not like 
being turned out of her father’s house. On the other hand, 
her relations with her step- mother. Lady Zembra, and her 
half-sisters, Florence and Gertrude, had never been of the 
most satisfactory kind ; not that they quarreled, but their 
modes of life and opinions and aims were so entirely differ- 
ent. So the ugly duckling was about to fly away. 

“Of course,” continued Sir Anthony, “ the whole thing 
is foolish from the beginning. It is simply ludicrous for a 
j^oung woman of your education and position to turn her - 
self into a hospital nurse, when you can get dozens of 
Avomen, of more hardened nerve, who could do the work 
ever so much better. But we’ve argued out that question 
before. I suppose you don’t intend to change your mind?” 

Surely his tone was unnecessarily hard, considering that 
he was turning her out of the house. 

“Papa,” she said, “I— I think I am doing what is right; 
but— hut you might make it a little easier for me. It 
won’t be holiday work.” 

“If it is not the greatest happiness of the greatest num- 
ber,” Sir Anthony continued, calmly, “it is at least the 
safety of the greatest number that I have to consider. 
And I have thought the matter over. I am prepared to 
allow you three hundred pounds a year; that is ample 
maintenance; for you don’t spend much on yourself. I 
have no doubt you will easily find some quiet, respectable 
family, where there are no children to be put in danger, 
who will receive you as a boarder, if go you must ” 

A sudden, happy light leaped to her eyes— those eyes 
in which “ her thoughts lay clear, like pebbles in a brook.” 
It had occurred to her that she could confer a kindness ! 
Even in being thrust forth from her father’s house, her 
first thought was that there was a chance of doing a 
friendly turn to certain folk she knew. 

“The Wy grams, papa,” she said, eagerly. “Do you 
think they would take me? You know they are not very 
well off; Mr. Wygram nevei* succeds in any of the com- 
petitions now ; and this might be a little something, if they 
were not offended. Oh, I know they would take me. 
Why, Jaiiie spends half her time with me now; I should 
be quite at home there!” 

“That will be for yourself to decide,” said Sir Anthony. 

And so it was that Sabina went to serve her six months 
at the London Hospital. It was not at all romantic work. 
Occasionally, of course, she had her moments of exalta- 
tion ; in crossing from the nurses’ dormitory, in the strange 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


13 


silence and darkness of a winter morning, and looking up 
to the vast, immeasurable skies, with the stars throbbing 
palely and distant, she would sometimes repeat to herself, 
as with a kind of ineffable longing: 

“ Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far 

Thro’ all yon starlight keen, ^ 

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, * 

In raiment white and clean.” 

But there was little time for self -communing during the 
continuous labor of the long day ; nor was she much given 
to pitying herself in any circumstances ; it was the suffer- 
ing of others that moved her; and here there was plenty 
of that, only too obvious, all around her. Moreover, she 
was a particularly healthy young woman, and she could 
bear fatigue better than any of her sister non- profession 
als, although when they got away to supper, about half- 
past eight or nine, and all of them pretty well fagged out 
Avith the day’s work, they used to joke her about her 
sleepy disposition. It was rumored, moreover, that one or 
two of the medical students who came about had cast an 
e3^e on this pretty, tall, benignant-eyed nurse, who looked 
so neat and smart in her belted gown and apron and cap, 
and that they paid a good deal more attention to her 
than to the patient whose condition she had to report to 
the doctor. But Sabie was impervious to all that kind of 
thing. It was only when she was with the other nurses at 
night that the dimple in her cheek appeared, and that she 
showed herself — as long as her eyes would keep open — 
blithe and friendly and merry-hearted. Perhaps she was 
only a woman’s woman after all. 

The long period of probation over, Sabina Avent to live 
Avith the Wygrams, a family Avho by dint of sore pinching 
still managed to occupy an old-fashioned house in Kensing- 
ton Square, that Avas endeared to them by its association 
Avith other and better days. Mr. Wygram had been atone 
time an architect in a fair way of business, and may have 
saved a little money then ; but the capable partner in the 
firm died; things went badly somehoAv; and now the old 
gentleman, Avho Avas as industrious as ever, kept Avorkiug 
away at competitive drawings, each time more and more 
confident that he Avas about to carry off the prize, and 
never doing so, but sometimes securing a few pounds by 
Avay of compensation. However, old Mr. and Mrs. Wy- 
gram were great favorites in the artist world of London ; 
and very distinguished people, indeed, might be found to- 
gether m the scantily furnished and rather melancholy 
drawing-room, at an evening party— that is to say, with 
tea and darkly suspicious sheriy and cake to crown the 
festivities. Aud what joy filled the heart of their only 


i^ABINA ZEMBRA. 


14 

daughter, Janie, when she learned that her beloved Sabina 
was coming to live with them ! Now there would be no 
risk of their chance evenings being dull; now there would 
be attraction and entertainment enough for all the world, 
and she would be accounted somebody among the young 
men— for that she could secure them, if she chose, an intro- 
duction to SabiO ; and she would take off Sabie’s cloak when 
she came in, and get tea for her, and sit by her with their 
arms intertwined, and have her all to herself. 

In short, the arrangement came to work very well all 
round. The sum paid by Sabina for her board and lodging 
(though this was a covert transaction) was a certain addi- 
tion to the finances of the establishment; Mrs. Wygram 
could be her chaperon when there was need, and Janie Nvas 
her constant companion when she “ went about doing 
good. ’ ’ For that was her occupation in life— as many a poor 
family down in CheFea knew ; and it came natural to her, 
and she was as busy, and as content, as the day was long. 
Then they had quiet evenings in the old-fashioned draw- 
ing-room: and the plain-featured, wistful-eyed Janie played 
very well; nor was she vexed when she looked round and 
found that her poor tired Sabie (who was very unconscion- 
able in this respect) had dropped into a little snooze ; and 
sometimes they had a game at whist, too ; and sometimes 
a few young people would drop in, and they would have a 
pretense of supper, and a bit of a carpet-dance. But al- 
ways these young people— and especially the young men— 
treated Sabina with a certain deference. It was not that 
she was in any way socially their superior, for that was 
not the case; the Wy grams had a very excellent circle of 
friends and acquaintances. It was rather something in 
her manner that distinguished her from them. One would 
almost have taken her for a young and gentle-eyed matron 
looking on— not without sympathy and pleasure— at the 
amusements of those boys and girls. She enjoyed their 
merriment as much as they did ; and her laugh was ready 
and quite youthful and joyous when anything ridiculous 
happened ; but ordinarily there was a kind of serious sweet- 
ness and grave kindliness in her eyes that seemed to keep 
her a little bit apart. She preferred to be a spectator — but 
surely a friendly one. 

Of course, she occasionally went up to see the family at 
Lancaster Gate, when she could solemnly assure them she 
had been near no infectious case; and it was on one of 
those visits that there occurred the unfortunate accident 
already referred to. She had chosen a Wednesday after- 
noon, knowing that her father would be early home from 
the House of Commons; but when she got to Lancaster 
Gate she found he had not arrived; Lady Zembra and 


i^ABINA ZEAIBRA. 


15 


Florence and Gertrude were out driving; the children 
were busy in the school-room. The onlj living thing to 
welcome her was the little spaniel, Busy — an old friend and 
ally of hers; and it occurred to her that, to beguile the 
tedium of waiting, she might as well take the dog for a bit 
of a run along the Bayswater Road and back. He was 
nothing loath, it may be guessed, and so she opened the 
door, and they went down the steps and made for the front 
pavement. 

What next occurred may take some minutes to tell, 
but it seemed to her to happen all in one wild second. 

“Now come here, Busy, you keep close to me,” she had 
said on leaving the house; for she knew the habits of the 
spaniel kind, and that this one delighted in nothing so 
much as scampering about in the open thoroughfare — amid 
cabs and omnibuses and carriages— and always with his 
nose down as if he expected to flush a pheasant in the mid- 
dle of Bayswater Road. Busy paid heed to his mistress so 
long as she spoke to him ; the moment they had reached 
the pavement he was off — careless of anything that might 
be coming along. She angrily called to him to come back 
— he turned in his scamper, but still with his nose down — 
and, alas! at the same instant she knew, rather than saw, 
that some one on a bicycle, coming at an alarming speed, 
was almost on the dog. 

“ Look out ! Take care !” she cried. 

Now, no doubt the bicyclist had seen the little spaniel ; 
and it is also possible that Busy might have got out of 
harm’s way unaided; but at all events her sudden cry 
seemed to startle this young fellow, who was coming along 
at such a rate, and probably from gallantry as much as 
anything else, he swerved sharply from his course, to make 
quite sure of missing the spaniel. 

Unhappily, at this precise spot there was a little heap of 
gravel, useS for scattering over the wooden pavement, 
lying by the roadway, and apparently the bicycle caught 
on some of the pebbles; the next thing she saw was some 
terrible thing hurling through the air and striking heavily 
against the curbstone, where it lay motionless. The blood 
forsook her face, but her courage was firm enough ; she 
was at his side in a moment, trying to raise his head, and 
then a few by-standers came hurrying up, and she be- 
sought them to carry him into her father’s house. White 
as her face was, she seemed calm and collected ; there was 
an air of authority about her; they did not even suggest 
the hospital. Nor, it must be confessed, did she pay much 
heed to her father’s remonstrances; her hands were full of 
work — work that she knew; moreover. Sir Anthony al- 
most immediately retired, grumbling. She was left alone 


16 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


to deal with the wounded man, a maid assisting her, for 
the footman, George, had rushed olf to summon the sur- 
geon. 

“Pore young' gentleman ! pore young gentleman!” the 
maid kept saying, and was rather inclined to look on, in a 
feebly commiserating attitude; but her pale-lipped young 
mistress had no time for mere pit 3 ^ 

“Catherine, get some calico — quick; and cut it into 
strips, and put them into cold water— look alive!” 

For there was a bad scalp-wound on the side of the young 
man’s head, and she had to stanch the blood, anil there- 
after bind the cold, wet bandages round it. He lay in a 
heavy stupor, only that once he murmured the words 
“cherry blossom,” and, busy as she was, it seemed pa- 
thetic to her that he should “babble o’ green fields.” And 
then, when she had bandaged his head, she passed her 
hands lightly over his neck and back and shoulders, and 
pretty well satisfied herself that there was no serious h*act- 
ure or dislocation; nevertheless, she was anxious that the 
surgeon should appear forthwith. 

She was moistening her patient’s lips with cold water 
when he drew a long breath and slowly opened his eyes. 
He looked at her with a kind of mild wonder, and then at 
the room around him; then he seemed to recollect. 

“That was a nasty one,” he managed to say. “Did 1 
hurt the dog?” 

“Oh, no, you did not,” Sabina said, quickly. “Pray 
don’t think of that. I am so sorry! It was all my fault. 

I should not have called to you— I am so sorry !” 

“ Oh, don’t trouble about me,” he said, with a faint kind 
of smile— for the shock and loss of blood had weakened 
him. “This isn’t my first cropper. There are no bones 
broken, I suppose ” 

“I think not— I think not,” she said, eagerly. “And 
there will be a surgeon here directly.” 

“But whose house is this?” he asked. It was all that 
he dared to ask. 

“Sir Anthony Zembra’s,” Sabina answered; and she 
added, without embarrassment, “I am his daughter. It 
was my little dog that made the mischief— or rather, I did 
myself. I do hope you are not seriously hurt.” 

“Hurt? No, no— don’t you bother. I shall be all right, ” 
he said. 

He was a fairly good-looking young fellow of some six 
or seven and twenty, with clear blue eyes, curly but short- 
cropped hair of a reddish yellow, and a healthy pink-and- 
white complexion that had got a wash of sun-tan over it. 
Clearly he had lived much in the open air ; and his frame 
seemed wiry and vigorous, with not an ounce of spare fat 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


17 


on it anywhere. As for guessing at his profession or call- 
ing or social status, that was not easy, seeing that he was 
clad in a bicycling suit; but his manner was well enough, 
and he seemed good-natured. Suddenly he uttered a little 
involuntary exclamation, and bit his under-lip. 

“What is it?” she said instantly. 

“My knee--and I hardly-moved it— oh, thunder!” 

The pain in his face was obvious; and he was about to 
make some effort to raise himself, when she caught him, 
and caught him firmly. 

“No, no; you must not move on any account— it maybe 
serious; you must lie perfectly still till the doctor comes.” 

“ Yes, but when is he coming?” he said, with a touch of 
impatience. “ If I have broken my leg, I want to know. 
You don’t understand what that would mean to me.” 

“ You have not broken your leg,” said she, calmly, “ but 
you may have injured your knee.” And then she added, 
without any false shame or hesitation, “ If you like, I will 
see what harm is done, and tell you. I know about these 
things; I have been in a hospital. Or if you would rather 
Avait, I am sure the doctor will be here in a few minutes.” 

“Oh, of course I will wait — I could not think of troub- 
ling you,” he said, instantly. 

“ And in the meantime I will make a splint,” said she, 
“just in case it should be necessary. Catherine, run and 
get me some cotton- wool. ” 

She went to the table, tore the cover off one of the chil- 
dren’s drawingbooks, and cut a strip of the thick pasteboard 
about three inches wide and over a dozen long; and she 
was in the act of swathing the improvised splint in the 
cotton-wool when the young surgeon arrived. Everything 
she had done he approved of ; but he was not surprised ; he 
was well aware of Miss Zembra’s qualifications. Then 
came the examination of the knee, and that was simple 
enough, for he had merely to unbuckle the knee-band 
of the knickerbockers; but the next moment he had grown 
grave. Sabina had withdrawn a step or two; her assist- 
ance was not needed. 

“What is it, doctor!” the young man said, noticing that 
look. 

“Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that you’ve dislo- 
cated your knee-cap, and there’s a bad bruise besides. 
MissZembra, I haven’t brought anything with me— your 
man met me in the street ■” 

Sabina came forward. 

“Here is a kind of a splint,” she said, “and I think 
there’s enough calico here for a figure-of-eight bandage— 
if that will do in the meantime ” 


18 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ In the meantime that will do excellently, until I run 
home and get some things.” 

“ But, doctor,” the young man on the couch said, and he 
was rather pale now, partly from loss of blood, no doubt, 
but also partly from anxiety, “what does all this mean? 
Is it really so bad? You don’t mean that I am to be laid 
up with a splint? Why, how soon~how soon, now, shall I 
be all right again? Not long, surely !” 

‘‘I don’t wish tc alarm you,” the surgeon said, in reply, 
” but I ought to warn you that it is rather a serious case, 
and that the greatest care will bo wanted. Even then 
it may be months before you can put your foot to the 
ground.” 

‘‘God bless me, you don’t know what you’re saying!” 
the young man cried, faintly, and very white his face was 
now. 

‘‘I’m afraid I do,” the surgeon said, quietly. 

The other remained silent for a second or two; then he 
said, with a kind of forced resignation. 

‘‘ When can I be taken to my own rooms?” 

The doctor turned to Sabina. 

‘‘It is a serious case,” said he; ‘‘I would not advise his 
removal, if your people would not mind letting him have 
the use of this room, for a few days even. ” 

‘‘Oh, but they must; of course they will,” Sabina ex- 
claimed, eagerly. ‘‘Oh, you don’t know, doctor; it was 
all my fault that the accident happened; I am more 
grieved about it than I can say; I cannot even think of it; 
and wliat we can do we must do-, but how can I ever atone 
for such an injury?” 

“The young lady had nothing to do with it,” said the 
maimed man; but he had to hold his breath now, for the 
surgeon was about to put bis knee in the splint. 

By and by, when the doctor was giving a few parting 
directions to Sabina (who had already installed herself as 
nurse, the maid Catherine assisting), and promising to be 
back shortly, the young man on the couch called to him in 
rather a faint voice: 

“ Doctor!” 

“Yes?” 

“ I wish you would do me a favor, will you?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“When you are out, will you go to the telegraph office 
and wire to the duke — the Duke of Exminster — that I 
sha’n’t be able to ride Cherry Blossom for him in the (>rand 
National. It’s hard luck, it is. Twenty times have I 
dreamed of lifting the old horse over Valentine’s Brook. 
Don’t forget— the Duke of Exminster— he’s at Helmsley 
just now. Well, it’s hard luck ; I knew the horse. Nobody 


SABINA ZE3IBBA. 


19 


else can do anything with him but myself. I could see us 
over the ditch and rail-fence near the bridge, and fairly in 
the line for home. Poor old Cherry Blossom— it’s very 
hard luck.” 

“And from whom shall I telegraph?” the doctor said, 
gently. 

“ Oh, my name, you mean? Fred Foster, Bury Street; 
the duke knows.” 

Sabina had left the room for a minute or two, and so re- 
mained undeceived as to the mistake she had made about 
his having “ babbled o’ green fields.” But that was not of 
much account, perhaps. What was of more account, at 
least to one very tender heart, was that poor Janie Wy- 
gram was now to be deprived for many a long day to 
come of the society and companionship of her beloved 
Sabie. 


CHAPTER III. 

WALTER LINDSAY. 

It is rather a sorry thing in these times to have to speak 
of a man who is in love; for in the eyes of most people— 
especially of the young men of the day — he seems to be 
considered a sentimental jackass; unless, indeed, the 
woman he is in love with should happen to be a married 
woman; and then the whole situation becomes intelligible, 
and even something to be mildly envied. However, Wal- 
ter Lindsay was in love, and very much in love ; and not 
with a married woman, but with Sabina Zembra. 

“ Poor fellow,” Janie Wygram would say to her mother, 
“ I do believe he is the most wretched man in this country ; 
and yet you would think he had everything that a human 
being could wish for. Good-looking — well, I call him most 
distinguished-looking — and handsome, with pleasant man- 
ners, a favorite everywhere, every woman anxious to have 
him at her house ; and people beginning to speak of him as 
almost, if not quite, the first landscape-painter in England ; 
with a splendid career before him, with plenty of money, 
a beautiful house, and heaps of friends ; and then his fam- 
ily-well, no wonder he is a little proud of the Lindsays of 
Carnryan, and of the old tower overlooking the sea; just 
think of all that, mother; and I know it is all worthless to 
him just because he cannot have Sabie’slove — and Sabie’s 
love he never will have in this world. ” 

“Don’t be so sure,” the mother would answer. 

“Ah but I know,” the plain-featured, gray-eyed Janie 
would continue (and she seemed rather to like talking 
about Miss Zembra). “ I know the only way to win Sabie’s 
love; it’s through her pity. If you’re poor or ragged or 


20 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


suffering, and look to her for help— that is the only way. 
Then her eyes grow soft. But why should she pity Mr. 
Lindsay, or take any interest in him? He has everything 
the world can give him— handsome, famous, with plenty 
of money, and plenty of friends— how should he appeal to 
her pity?” 

Don't you say that he is miserable?” 

Janie smiled a little, but not out of malice. 

“ She doesn’t understand that kind of misery; no, nor 
that kind of love, either. If you spealc to her of that kind 
of love she only laughs and turns away. Sabie will never 
marry — never.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” the mother would repeat; she had 
seen more things happen than her daughter had. 

“Ah, but I know. And why should she marry? Doesn’t 
she see how great a delight she can give to so many people? 
And it’s so easy for her, mother. She has only to smile 
and look pleased, and people are grateful. When she 
comes into a room it’s like bringing sunlight; everybody’s 
face brightens up. I wonder,” continued Janie Wygrani, 
rather wistfully, “ if beautiful people know how thankful 
they should be for their beauty? I wonder if they know 
how easy it is for them to make friends — and to be 
kind ” 

“ I wish you would stop talking about her,” her mother 
would probably interpose at this juncture. “ She has 
made a fool of you.” 

“And you, mother? You don’t see much in Sabie? 
Well, it’s a shame to speak of her as if it was only her 
beauty. It’s her goodness. She’s ‘ better than she’s 
bonny ’ — if that is possible.” 

“ She has got a stanch champion, anyway.” 

One afternoon the young artist whose name was intro- 
duced so frequently in their repeated conversations was*in 
his studio, up Ladbroke Grove way, and he was seated at 
an open piano, though he was not playing. He was a man 
of about eight -and-t wen ty or thirty, tall and spare, pale of 
face, with perfectly coal-black hair and black eyes, that 
were contemplative rather than observant— at least they 
were so at this moment. The studio was a large and hand- 
some apartment, hung with tapestry, and stored with all 
kinds of bric-a-brac, that spoke of Spain, and Tunis, and 
Egypt mostly, though there was a nondescript and pictur- 
esque variety and confusion prevailing throughout. Da- 
mascus-ware jugs, old violins, bits of Italian embroidery, 
Indian swords, eighteenth-century ale-jugs, Sheraton 
chairs, pictures framed and unframed, photographs of 
popular actresses, wooden pipes, sheaves of brushes, books, 
stray music, invitation cards, Persian rugs, Rhodian 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


21 


dishes, tennis-balls, cigar-boxes, Syrian silks, all were 
filing together anyhow; but besides these ordinary para 
phernalia of a modern studio, tliere were certain ‘ ‘ proper- 
ties ” more particularly wanted for the landscape artist’s 
special work — a great mass of freshly cut golden-blossomed 
furze, a sheaf of dried bulrushes, the stem of a birch tree 
with its hanging silvery flakes, and everywhere bunches 
of early spring flowers stuck carelessly into pots. 

And yet there was a kind of harmony in all this en- 
tanglement of things; they seemed appropriate. Perhaps 
the somber grayness of the afternoon had its effect. And 
perhaps, too, that had its effect on the mind of the young 
man sitting at the piano. When he put his fingers on the 
keys it was in a musing kind of way, and the chance bits 
of Mendelssohn or Chopin that he absently played seemed 
to come unsought for, as if it were his memory that was 
speaking to him. Sometimes his fingers rested idle, and 
then the silence was almost painfully distinct, for the 
studio was separated from the house by a strip of garden, 
and there was not even the ticking of a clock to be heard. 
He played one or two little waltzes by Mozart— curiously 
quaint and simple and melodious. He hummed to himself, 
as he touched the notes, Lillo’s 

“Eitorna ch’io t’amo, mio primo sospir.’’ 

But by and by this languid and careless occupation 
ceased altogether; he sat for a little time plunged in a 
vague reverie; and then, as with an effort, he rose, shut 
the piano mechanically, and turned to face the empty 
studio. This seemed to bring him to his senses somewhat. 

“ It’s a queer world,” he said to himself. 

And yet he seemed irresolute. He took up a wooden 
pipe, but almost immediately put it down again; then he 
went and stood in front of the unfinished landscape that 
was on the easel. It was a large water-color drawing; an 
evening scene — the spire of a village church rising dark 
into the golden glow of the sunset sky ; a river stealing in 
shadow underneath a grove of dusky elms; empty mead- 
ows with a pearly gray mist rising from them. It seemed 
to suggest silence and remoteness, and perhaps a trifl^ of 
sadness too, for the day was dying away in the west, and 
the velvet-footed night coming stealthily over the land. 
But what a time and a place for lovers ! There were no 
figures in this landscape; he had intentionally left it with- 
out any sign of life ; it seemed secret and sacred at this 
sad hour; there was not even a swallow skimming over 
that still-flowing stream. But what, now, if some veiled 
and hooded maiden were to appear out of that golden glow 
beyond, and come swiftly with timid footstep along by thq 


22 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


hushed meadows and the whispering reeds? Could the 
gracious heavens be so bountiful, on some such evening as 
this — in the coming years — and she, the one maiden in all 
the world, be actually there, and he hastening toward her 
with wildly-beating heart? Easily could he recognize her 
figure far away ; there was but the one. And then the un- 
tying of the hood, and the beautiful tender eyes benignant 
—Sabina 

“ If I were on my death-bed,” he said to himself, ‘‘the 
image of that woman would come between me and my 
grave.” 

But what had Sabina done that he should be angry with 
her? If he chose to make a fool of himself about a woman 
(he said to himself), that was none of her fault. And so, 
as the afternoon was dreary and uncomfortable, and not 
conducive to work, and the studio very silent and lonely, 
and the associations of this picture rather melancholy, he 
thought he would go away and seek for some society some 
where. And whose? Why, Janie W^ygram’s, to be sure — 
if haply he might find' her at home. If not the rose, she 
was near the rose; and she would have something to say 
to him about Sabina. 

He put on his hat and overcoat, and also a pair of gloves, 
for artists have abandoned their Bohemian manners and 
customs nowadays, and he was about to pay an afternoon 
caU. And as he walked away over Campden Hill Road, 
and so down into Kensington, how was it that his eye 
instinctively sought out any tall woman that he could see 
in the distance? It was very unlikely that accident should 
bring Sabina in his way ; and yet the remote possibility 
was always there, and it lent an interest to all the neighbor- 
hood of Kensington, and it had become an unconscious 
habit with him to look far ahead with this half-defined 
hope always present with him. And then, again, where 
the High Street narrows there is an abundance of shops, 
and there mammas and daughters congregate, passing by 
the windows slowly; and if by chance he were to find 
Sabina in that throng! In especial there was a florist’s 
shop that was of interest to him; for Sabina, when she 
came round that way, generally called there to carry home 
some flowers for Mrs. Wygram, who herself could not well 
afford such luxuries. However, on this particular after 
noon, as on many and many another one, his half- inten- 
tional scrutiny was fruitless; and so he turned down 
Young Street, and made for the Wygrams’ house in Ken- 
sington Square. 

Janie w.as up stairs in her mother’s room; she saw him 
come along the pavement. 

‘‘ There’s Mr. Lindsay, mother.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


23 


“ You must go down, then, and make some excuse. I 
can’t see him in this state; besides, I’m busy.” 

‘‘Oh, I can entertain him well enough, mother,” the 
younger woman said. “You’ve only to talk to him about 


Sabie.” 


Of course it was not Mr. Lindsay who introduced that 
subject when these two were seated in the dusky drawing- 
room — oh, no! Mr. Lindsay talked about theaters and new 
books and music; and when Miss Wygram incidentally 
mentioned that Sabie was s that afternoon with her 



people at Lancaster Gate, he did not say anything at all. 
Nay, when Miss Wygram, who was a kind-hearted creat- 
ure, would insist on talking about Sabie, and the good she 
was doing, and her kindness, and her gentleness, and her 
courage, and all the rest, he listened respectfully, it is true, 
but did not betray much interest. 

“Of course she has her faults,” said Janie. 

“Oh, indeed!” said he, thinking himself very cunning. 
“Well, now, it would be something to hear of them. As 
every one has nothing but praises for Miss Zembra, it 
would be quite refreshing to hear unkind things said of 
her.” 

Janie winced. That she should be thought capable, even 
in jest, of saying unkind things of her dearest! Neverthe- 
less, she continued : 

“Oh yes, she has faults, and plenty,” she said, cheer- 
fully. “How could one love her if she were perfect? 
Faults — oh yes. For one thing, she is a little too anxious 
to have every one fond of her. She can’t bear that any 
one should be quite indifferent about her. She likes to be 
well thought of. I don’t know that it is exactly vanity — 
for it is not her appearance she thinks of— it’s herself that 
she wants people to like ; and more than that, she insists 
on it. If an ill-conditioned brat of a boy will have noth- 
ing to say to her, you will see her deliberately neglect the 
whole of the family until she has won him over in spite of 
himself. Or an old woman. Old women are sometimes 
cynical. They distrust pretty eyes. Then you should see 
Sabie! Oh, she is a hypocrite — an out-and-out hypocrite! 
But that is the one thing she cannot bear — that anybody 
should be quite indifferent about her.” 

“So far,” said he, “ Miss Zembra’s faults don’t seem to 
be very serious. Some people would call them virtues. I 
don’t think it is much against a woman — and particularly 
a young woman— that she should wish to be thought well 
oL It seems to me quite natural. And as for wishing peo- 
ple to be fond of her, surely that is natural too. The strange 
thing to me is that she should experience any difficulty.” 

She knew he would come to Sabie s defense— knew it 


24 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


perfectly when she began, and she thought she would 
reward him. She had observed his eyes wandering occa- 
sionally toward a photograph that stood on the mantel- 
piece : she went and fetched that. 

“This is the last that has been done of Sabie; do you 
think it like?” 

He took the photograph in his hand. 

“Like”— he said, after a second. “ Why, it’s herself— 
her very self! And so natural and simple the whole 
thing — and so good-natured she looks!” 

“ Would you care to have it?” she said, with an air of 
indifference. She meant him to understand that she could 
have as many photographs of Sabie as she chose. 

He looked up quicfly and eagerly. 

“ May I have it?” 

“Oh, yes, if you care for it. I have plenty of others. 
Only a studio is such a public place— people come strolling 
in, and you would have to explain that it was I who gave 
it you. ’ ’ 

“ But do you think I would have it lying about? I can 
assure you no. If I may have it, I will lock it away as 
my greatest treasure.” 

“ Oh, but you must not say such things,” said Miss 
Janie, laughing. “And about the studio, Mr. Lindsay— I 
hope you did not think it rude of us, going in the other 
day.” 

“ It was the most awful piece of bad luck that ever hap- 
pened to me that I should have been out,” he answered. 
“ And Mrs. Summers not to have offered you tea! She’s a 
dreadfully stupid woman, that woman.” 

“ But I suppose she was so frightened by our boldness,” 
said Miss Janie. “ You see, it was such a temptation. 
Sabie had never been in a studio before. And then mother 
happened to be with us ; and it was really her doing ; for 
when Mrs. Summers said you were not at home, mother 
said, ‘ Oh, that’s all right; we’ll go and rummage over the 
place.’ And Sabie said, ‘ Oh, he’s so good-natured he won’t 
mind.’ And you sliould have seen how interested she was 
— especially in the embroidery; and she wondered who 
could have taught you to pick up such things. Yes, and 
the picture— you should have heard what she said ” 

“ But which one?” he said, quickly. It was aU music to 
his ears. 

“The one on the easel, you know — the one with the 
church and the trees and the river— the evening one ” 

“ Did she like that?” 

“Oh, yes; you should have heard. And when Sabie 
likes a thing she tells you.” 

“ Miss Wygram, would you do me a very, very great 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 25 

favor?” said he. “ Do you think you could get her to ac- 
cept it?” 

“What?” 

“ That picture. Do you think Miss Zembra would take 
it? I should be so glad if she would. It is a fair exchange 
— I have her portrait. Do you think she would take that 
drawing if I finished it and had it framed for her?” 

“ But what would she do with it?” Miss Janie said. She 
was a little bit frightened, thinking she had said too much ; 
and she knew that Mr. Lindsay’s pictures fetched very 
large prices, for water-colors. 

“ Why, she might hang it up in her room, if she cared 
anything for it at all. Or over there — she might hang it 
there — and it would be hers all the same. Do you think 
you could induce her to accept it, if it was framed and made 
a little more presentable?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Lindsay!” Miss Janie said, earnestly. 
“ It’s bad enough for a parcel of strangers to go into an 
artist’s studio ” 

“Strangers!” said he. 

“ But to plunder him as well, simply because you happen 
to say you like a particular picture ” 

“ But you don’t know,” he broke in — “ why, you don’t 
know what pleasure it would give me if Miss Zembra 
would only take that picture. It’s nothing; it’s a foolish 
kind of thing. But if she sees anything in it — if she would 
take it ” 

“I’m sure she would not,” said Miss Janie, promptly, 
“ and I know I should get into sad trouble if she discovered 
that I was the cause of your making so generous an offer! 
But — but — now, shall I be frank with you?” 

“ Yes; but be frank in this way: I will give you the pict- 
ure, and you will hang it up in her room,” said he. 

“Oh, no; how could that be? But — but— if you would 
make a small sketch of it— something that would not cost 
you too much trouble— I’m sure she would be glad to have 
that.” 

“Are you sure she would take it?” he said, eagerly. 

“ I’m sure she would be very, very much pleased to have 
it,” said Miss Janie, frankly. “ But you see how it is, Mr. 
Lindsay: it’s difficult for people who are not artists to ac- 
cept a valuable picture. It’s all very well for artists, who 
can repay in kind.” 

“ Then you think there is nothing in winning approval— 
there is nothing in being able to gratify a friend?” said he. 

“Oh yes; if every one was as pretty as Sabie, I could 
understand it,” she rejoined. “But even in her case ” 

And then he grew bold. 

“ Now I am going to tell you something,” said he, “ and 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


to ask of you the greatest favor I ever asked of anybody. 
Have you heard of Borella, the new barytone? No? Well, 
he has only sung at one or two houses, privately, as yet; 
but he is something wonderful, I assure you; the quality 
of his voice is perfectly marvelous, and the skill with 
which he adapts it to a small room just as marvelous, too. 
Well, he is coming to my studio Thursday, next week, in 
the evening; and there will be a few young people there; 
and there will be a little music, and a little supper, and so 
forth; and I was wondering if your mother and you would 
be so kind as to join the little party. You see ” 

“ I think I know,” interposed Miss Janie, with a smile; 
and although she was not pretty, she could loolc friendly 
and amiable on occasion, and she had a little sympathy 
with this unhappy young man. ‘‘I think I know. You 
wmuld like mother to go up in the afternoon, and have a lit- 
tle chat with Mrs. Summers about the supper, and the ar- 
rangement of the flowers, and so forth?” 

‘‘ Would she be so kind?” 

‘‘But as for me,” said Miss Janie, demurely, “ what use 
should I be? Well, would you like me to bring Sabie with 
me?” 

He lowered his eyes, to hide their anxiety. 

‘‘ Do you think Miss Zembra would care to come up for 
even half an hour?” said he. “Borella is a very good- 
natured fellow : he told me that if he came at all it would 
be to sing for my guests. I think she would be pleased. T 
am sure she would be pleased.” 

“ But that’s not the way to put it when you’re talking 
about Sabie. The question is— Can she do a kindness to 
anybody?” 

“ I should consider it more than a kindness,” he said, 
in rather a low voice. 

“Oh, I’ll bring Sabie along,” Miss Janie said, cheerfully. 

“Will you?” he said. He looked up. “ It is a promise, 
mind. And you know. Miss Janie ” (for he permitted him- 
self this familiarity on rare occasions), “ I am going to in- 
sist on your taking that sunset sketch as a present /rom 
me. Oh, yes, you must! When I have offered anybody 
anything, then it is no longer mine.” 

“But, good gracious, Mr. Lindsay, what should I do 
with such a valuable picture?” said Miss Janie, frightened 
again. 

“It will become valuable if you accept it,” said he, 
gently. “ And there is the very place to hang it, over 
there ; and if Miss Zembra would care to have a little replica 
of it, I should be very happy to do that for her at any 
time.” 

He rose and took his hat. 


SABTNA ZEMBRA. 


27 


“I will send your mother a little reminder note about 
Thursday next week,” said he. “And I hope you won’t 
forget your promise about Miss Zembra.” 

“Oh, I’ll bring Sabie along,” was the confident answer. 
“Good-bye.” 

Dark had fallen over Kensington now ; but for him the 
gray melancholy that hung about the dismal streets was 
filled with all kinds of brilliant and happy visions. Sabina 
was coming to his little party ; and now the question was 
as to what he could do, and plan, and contrive, for the en- 
tertainment of this radiant visitor. Neither Mrs. Sum- 
mers nor Mrs. Wygram, to begin with, was to be intrusted 
with the supper arrangements, he would go forthwith to a 
famous confectioner and bid him do his best, sparing 
neither cost nor trouble. And he would call on the great 
barytone, and make sure of him. Then, Avhatever Covent 
Garden could produce in the way of flowers would make 
that one night sweet and memoi’able; with this proviso, 
that while the florist might exercise his fancy as he pleased 
with regard to the little bouquets or button-holes placed on 
the table for the guests, he— that is to say, the host himself 
— would reserve for himself, and for himself alone, the 
devising of the bouquet that Sabina would find awaiting 
her I 


CHAPTER IV. 

FRED POSTER. 

An angry man, indeed, was Sir Anthony Zembra when 
he found that the stranger who had been thus uncere- 
moniously thrust into his house promised to be a fixture 
there, at least for a considerable time. And naturally he 
was impatient to know who he was ; but he would not ask 
Sabina; he made his inquiries of Dr. Hungerford, plainly 
intimating the while that as likely as not this unwelcome 
guest was a common swindler, and all the fuss about the 
hurt knee part of a sche#le of robbery. 

“He would be an enterprising burglar who would get 
himself smashed about like that on purpose,” said the 
young surgeon, laughing. “Anyhow, Sir Anthony, it will 
be many a day before he is able to run away with anything. 
And I will say this for him : he tries to make as light of 
his injuries as may be — especially if Miss Zembra is within 
hearing; and talks quite contentedly about the whole affair. 
He has pluck, at all events ” 

“Yes, yes; but— but— God bless my soul, I want to 
know who he is! Who is he? What is he?” Sir Anthony 
demanded. 

“ Well, I think I should call him, speaking generally, a 


28 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


sporting character,” the surgeon answered. “At least I 
can’t make out that he has any occupation besides riding 
steeple-chases, backing horses, playing billiards, and so 
forth. But his interest in such matters seems to be of an 
all-round character. He offered to lay me six to four oil 
Oxford for the boat-race.” 

“Professional conversation!” Sir Anthony said. 

“My fault, at all events,” the young surgeon said, 
promptly. “Well, it is neither that race nor any other 
that he’il be present at for many a day to come, poor fel- 
low,” 

“What I want to know is,” observed Sir Anthony, 
coldly, “when you mean to remove him from this house. 
I don’t see that" we are responsible for the accident in any 
way whatever; and, really, to have one’s domestic arrange- 
ments upset in this fashion, on behalf of a stranger, is per- 
fectly absurd. Common humanity? Common stupidity! 
When is this gentleman jockey, or whatever he is— ‘ gen- 
tleman jock’ is the phrase, isn’t it?— when is he going to 
clear out of my house?” 

“Well, now. Sir Anthony,” the surgeon said, “ I would 
beg of you not to hurry his removal. I would rather not 
run any risk, unless you have imperative need of the 
room. I dare say every thing will go on well ; bis consti- 
tution seems to be a sound and healthy one; and as soon 
as it is fairly safe we will have him taken away — but not 
to his own rooms, I hope. Bury Street, St. James’, is not 
a very cheerful place for a man who will have to be on his 
back for the next month or two. I don’t know what his 
means are ; but if he could afford to go to Brighton — if he 
were to get a front room on the King’s Road or the Marine 
Parade, that would be more lively for him. And then, on 
a fine day, he might be wheeled down the Pier on a 
stretcher, and get the sea air and the sunlight into his 
blood.” 

“ I cannot say that I feel called upon to concern myself 
about the young man,” observedllBir Anthony, in his lofty 
manner, “ although one naturally wishes him a speedy re- 
covery. In the mean time I shall be glad to have the use 
and freedom of my own house again at the very earliest 
opportunity.” 

Lady Zembra, for her part, flatly declined to allow the 
maid Catherine to be forever dancing attendance on the 
sick-room; and as Sabina could not do everything herself 
—and as, moreover, she could not wholly neglect certain 
charges of hers down in the Chelsea district— she got in a 
trained nurse to help her, defraying the cost out of her own 
pocket. But she herself spent a large portion of each day 
in the invalid’s chamber; and she would bring him news' 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


29 


papers and illustrated journals and books; and would sit 
amiably chatting with him to lighten the tedium of this 
enforced confinement. Fred Foster, it must be confessed, 
was not much of a reader; when he had glanced at the lat- 
est betting for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and seen how 
Cherry Blossom stood for the Liverpool Grand National, he 
was content to put the evening paper aside, and would 
rather talk to Sabina, in a timid and respectful and grate- 
ful way. And yet he spoke cheerfully, too; for he would 
not have her think he was fretting overmuch, and as they 
became better friends, he was quite frankly garrulous about 
himself and his experiences and companions and pursuits. It 
was a new world, this that was being opened to her; and 
yet it was interesting in a fashion; for she was a friendly 
and sympathetic kind of creature, and accustomed to meet- 
ing diverse people, who all had their own way of life. And 
there was a sort of good-natured cynicism and saturnine 
honesty in this young man’s talk that was in a measure at- 
tractive ; and he seemed to have seen a good deal of the 
world for one of his years. 

But it was when he told her all about his home in Buck- 
inghamshire, and the old people there, that he pleased her 
most. It appeared that he was returning from a visit to 
them (having sent on his portmanteau by rail) when he 
met with the smash in Bayswater Eoad. His father, he 
told her, had a good many years ago laid out his last penny 
on property down Amersham and Missenden way, in the 
expectation of a railway being made along the valley; but 
the railway never came ; land would not sell at all ; farms 
were letting badly ; and times were not as they used to be. 
Still, that seemed a comfortable home that he talk(‘d about; 
and Sabina, sitting in this silent room, and listening with 
friendly interest to his idle discourse, could see for herself 
the big, old-fashioned, red-brick house fronting the road ; a 
row of tall elms outside; inside the low, wide hall, with its 
pillars; rambling corridors and rooms with casernented 
windows; a spacious garden behind; and, busy in the 
vineries, an old gentleman in velveteen coat and gaiters, 
with a velvet cap and tassel on his head, a pair of shears 
in his hands, and not far away from him a long clay pipe. 

“But it’s the mater , he would say (and he was fond of 
returning to this point, and Sabina liked to hear him speak 
in this fashion), “it’s the mater has been my stand-by 
through thick and thin; and whatever happens to me I 
know I’ve got one friend. Well, you see, the governor has 
been rather inclined to cut up rough with me from time to 
time, and no wonder, for I have been an idle wretch; I 
mean, the only things that I can do well don’t seem to 
bring in much coin, and I dare say I have been a disap • 


30 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


pointment to him. But the old lady is my stanch friend 
through everything. And mind, I don’t mean only in the 
way of money. No, no. You see. Miss Zembra, a man 
who has had a little experience in turf affairs, and mixed 
himself up in that kind of life — well, I don’t suppose that 
he can have the highest notions about human nature, and 
be too ready to believe in people; but it’s a very capital 
thing for him if he knows that somewhere or other — no 
matter where, but somewhere — there is one human being 
that is just as good as gold. I suppose, now, at my age, 
my one perfect human being should be a young woman, 
notan old one; a divinity and angel about eighteen or 
twenty. Well, I’ve never met any of that kind; I’ve 
never met any girl even fit to be compared to my mother. 
It isn’t ribbons and scents, and a dog-cart and a pair of 
ponies driven tandem, for her; she doesn’t think what she 
can get out of you; it’s what she can do for you, that she 
thinks of; she’s just as good as gold, she is.” 

“Audi hope and am sure you will always think so,” 
Sabina said. ‘‘But why should you have disappointed 
your father?” 

” Well, you see, my wares don’t fetch a big price in the 
world’s market,” said he, and there was an odd kind of 
simplicity in his self-disparagement. “What am I to do? 
lean ride a horse; and I’ve ever been complimented at 
times for a nicish bit of mouth-touching. And I play a 
fair game at billiards. And I’d back myself at a pigeon- 
match ev^en against the claimant, and that is saying some- 
thing ” 

“Pigeon-shooting?” she said; there was the least trace 
of surprise in her tone; and that of itself was a compli- 
ment. 

“I beg your pardon— I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” 
he said, laughing a little. “ Sentiment has changed. But 
don’t you believe the nonsense that is talked about pigeon- 
shooting, either. Miss Zembra. It used to be the most 
fashionable thing going; it isn’t now; and why? Because 
it’s easy? Because it’s merely slaughter? Not a bit; it’s 
because’ it’s too difficult— and a score is kept. If you put 
a man into a hot corner at a pheasant-shoot and "let him 
blaze away, he’ll make a bag somehow, and nobody counts 
the misses; it’s different in an open field, with a crowd of 
fashionable people looking on, and the reporters with their 
note-books just behind you. Did you ever hear of the 
Lords and Commons pigeon-shooting match at Hurling- 
ham? No; before your time, I suppose. And before mine, 
too, rather; but I’ve seen the score; and if you look at 
that score you’ll find how it was that pigeon-shooting 
ceased to be fashionable. People always turn their backs 


c 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


31 


on what they can’t do. You don’t like to have all your 
lady-friends looking on while you show what a duffer you 
are; and you don’t want to have the ^core in the News- 
papers next day. Then don’t you believe the stories about 
the maiming of the pigeons either; that’s all newspaper 
nonsense. Do you think they’d get a single man to lay a 
sovereign if anything like that were allowed? No, no; and 
of course the betting- men back the pigeon; they know 
he’ll play fair; they may not be so sure about the noble 
sportsman ; but they know the bird will try to get away 
if he can. You can’t ‘ pull ’ a pigeon.” 

However, he saw by the expression of her face— and the 
hazel eyes were easy to read — that this was not a wholly 
grateful subject ; and he got away from it. She was far 
more pleased by his descriptions of the morning gallops, 
before breakfast, on Epsom Downs; and he spoke rather 
wistfully about them; and she thought it a pitiable thing 
that he should be lying here, helpless. But whether he 
spoke wistfully or cheerfully, all the way through these 
chance conversations there ran an innocent assumption that 
she must be interested ; and she did become interested, 
without hardly knowing why. For one thing, he talked 
about horses with a genuine enthusiasm ; and she grew to 
sympathize in his admiration of skillful riding; and could 
almost understand how Jem Robinson burst into tears of 
vexation when he found he had been tricked by the lad 
Twitchet; and she was sorry for Fordharn when she was 
told how Sam Rogers had served him the same turn. It 
was a new world to her; and there were plenty of strange 
characters in it, and striking incidents, and moving his- 
tories. She grew almost familiar with its physical aspects; 
when he described the Grand National course, she had to 
construct in her imagination the successive thorn fences 
and hurdles bushed with gorse, and Beecher’s Brook, and 
Valentine’s Brook, and the Water Jump, and then again the 
hurdles on the straight way for home. Cherry Blossom was 
now at 11 to 2, and still first favorite; and how could she 
help hoping the horse would win, seeing that this young 
man, who seemed so good-natured and cheerful, and patient 
under his grievously bad luck, was so obviously anxious 
about it? 

The Duke of Exminster called on Fred Foster to see how 
he was getting on ; and very sorry was that young gentle- 
man that Sabina happened to be out. 

” Very sorry,” he said; “ I should like you to have met, 
if just for once, the very straightest man that ever had 
anything to do with the English turf— the very straightest. 
and all his life through, too. iVonder who ever heard of 


33 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


him ‘ readying ’ a horse and running it out of form so as to 
scoop the big handicap afterward ” 

“ But is it so unusual to find an honest man on the turf?” 
Sabina asked. • 

He did not answer; he only said, evasively, and a little 
grimly: 

“ Horse -racing is a great game; and it has got to be 
played different ways.” 

Now, as has already been said, the training that Sabina 
had voluntarily undergone had taught her a wide catholicity 
of sympathy; and she had long ago got rid of any Phari- 
saical notion tliat because a certain way of life is right for 
this or that person, it is necessarily so for all. This kind 
of life that he described, if it did not appear to be informed 
by any lofty purpose, or to be exerting any beneficial 
influence on others, was nevertheless apparently joyous 
and merry, and so far it was distinctly well; while it was 
certainly not one whit more selfish than the lives of the 
vast majority of the people— highly respectable and praise- 
worthy people — whom she saw around her. 

Perhaps there was a trifle too much luncheon-basket in 
it; and there was a pretty continuous popping of cham- 
pagne-bottles; but on the other hand that was probably 
the handiest way of celebrating victories; and, for the 
rest, there seemed to be a considerable amount of good- 
comradeship and generous help for the unfortunate in this 
set that he described. Nay, when she began and told him 
a little of how she spent her own time — what her occupa- 
tions were, and so forth— hb said he was quite ashamed of 
himself; and wondered what she would think of him, who 
could but talk of horses, and hounds, and partridges, and 
tennis courts, while she was engaged in such unselfish and 
noble work. 

“But then,” said he, looking at her, “there are not 
many like you.” 

“ What do you mean?” she said. 

“ Oh, I can’t tell you to your face,” he answered, gently; 
and then an unaccustomed flush mantled in the pale and 
beautiful forehead; and she turned quickly aside to get 
for him his lemon -juice and soda-water, which was the 
beverage allowed him at this time. 

On another occasion he said : 

“You know it’s awfully good of you. Miss Zembra, to 
bother yourself about me, and to come and chat with me 
now and again, and you so busy. But I have remorse of 
conscience. I have indeed. I really must ask you not to 
let me take up so much oj your time— there are so many 
others who have better claims.” 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 3?} 

“Perhaps you forget how you came to be here at all,” 
said Sabina. 

“ Oh, but you must put that out of your head,” he in- 
sisted. “You were in no way responsible for the accident. 
Anybody’s dog would have brought about the same thing. 
Or rather, it was my own stupidity that did it, for I should 
have seen the little heap of gravel. Or rather— and this 
is the truth— it was a piece of pure bad luck. I’ve come a 
cropper many a time before ; but this time, by pure bad 
luck, I chanced to hit the curb-stone. Well, why should 
you consider yourself responsible for that? However, you 
must not think me ungrateful for all your goodness to me; 
and I have been wondering whether you wouldn’t let me 
take a little part in what you are doing. I mean,” he 
added, with a touch of half- am used embarrassment, “ you 
might bring me luck— that is supposing Schiller were to 
win the Shipley Hall Handicap on Tuesday next, would 
you accept a ten- pound note for distribution among your 
poor people?” 

“ Oh yes, certainly, if you care to give it me,” said Miss 
Zembra, promptly ; she had long ago ceased to be squeam- 
ish about such matters. 

“It’s rather a shabby offer, isn’t it, to make it condi- 
tional?” he continued. “ But every loose farthing I’ve got 
I’ve put on that horse, and if I were out and about now I’d 
sell my boots, I believe, and clap everything on; for it’s as 
good as a moral, so the duke says. And then there’s the 
glory— you see, I own a sixth share in this horse ” 

Miss Zembra had taken up the evening paper; she 
wanted to know something about the animal that was per- 
haps to win ten pounds for her. 

“The Derby Meeting,” he said. “The Shipley Hall 
Handicap.” 

“Oh, yes, here it is,” she said. “Schiller, four to one 
against. That does not look promising, does it?” 

“ Promising enough. I wish it was twenty to one. I 
know the old horse will pull it off for us this time, though 
it isn’t a big thing. We can’t all be dukes.” 

“ But with regard to the ten pounds, now,” said Sabina, 
rather diffidently — “ I am afraid I accepted heedlessly.” 

“ Oh, a bargain’s a bargain,” he said, with much cheer- 
fulness, “and I think you’ll find by next Tuesday after- 
noon that Schiller has landed you that ten-pound note for 
your pensioners; the money might go a worse way.” 

It may be said generally that he bore this imprisonment 
with* really remarkable fortitude, the more so that when 
Sabina was absent the other members of the household did 
nothing at all to relieve his solitude. Lady Zembra was 
so kind as to make inquiries about him from day to day of 


u 


SABINA ZEMBkA. 


the nurse ; and Sir Anthony would ask an occasional ques- 
tion of the doctor, but it was very clear that their solici- 
tude was prompted solely by a desire to know when he was 
going away. In these circumstances, Sabina did what she 
could to keep him amused, and gave him as much of her 
time as was possible ; and in this way she came to know his 
history, even from his boyhood’s days, in a curiously inti- 
mate feshion. 

He liked to talk ; he was grateful to so gentle and con- 
sidei’ate a listener; for, indeed, in her attitude toward him 
there was an almost maternal kindliness and patience and 
sympathy. One would scarcely have remembered that, as 
a matter of fact, he was a couple of years older than she 
was. He talked to her as if he knew she would pass no 
harsh judgment when he made confession; and also as if 
lie was sure beforehand that she would like well enough to 
know all about his first pistol, and his adventures with his 
pony, and his bird stuffing, and his various scrapes at 
school, and the gradual way in which in after-life he be- 
came associated with the sporting world. She got to 
understand all about his somewhat strained relations with 
his father, his dependence on his mother, and his abun- 
dant gratitude toward her ; his general habits of life, his 
opinions of particular men, his manner of looking at the 
tricks of fickle fortune. Moreover, through all this self- 
revelation there ran a vein of sarcasm that gave it 
piquancy. His judgment of people and things was shrewd 
and sharp; so was his judgment of himself: and there was 
a kind of innocent saturnine honesty about iiirn that 
amused her and attracted her at the same time. 

“ If I had broken my neck that time I pitched on the 
pavement,” he said, on one occasion, “I suppose I should 
have had to give an account of myself. Well, I should 
just have said this: ‘ Lord, there are some would tell you 
I was a very good sort of fellow, but I know I’ve been 
rather a bad sort of fellow; only, I was just what you 
made me.” 

And it was hardly her business to point out to him that 
this theory of moral responsibility— or irresponsibility— 
was of a primitive and unworkable character. One thing, 
finally, was certain— this man interested her; ^nd Jane 
Wygram had maintained that, so far, Sabina had never 
shown herself interested (in Janie’s sense of the phrase) in 
any man. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


35 


CHAPTER V. 

SER PEDERIGO’S FALCON. 

Naturally, Jane Wygram regarded with anything but 
favor the young man who was thus claiming so much of 
her beloved Sabie’s attention; and her jealousy of him 
made her all the more determined that Sabina should go 
to Walter Lindsay’s party. 

“But why should I go?” Sabina said, quite good-nat- 
uredly. “Some people are interested in such things, but 
1 am not. Standing about among a lot of half- strangers, 
and trying to talk about things that are quite indifferent 
to you ” 

” Oh, but, Sabie, you don’t know,” her friend said. “ It’s 
not like that at Mr. Lindsay’s. They’re small parties, and 
there’s no one asked who isn’t eitlier clever, or pretty, or 
remarkable in some way ; and there is every kind of free- 
dom and amusement and merriment. You will find no old 
people there at all, except mother, who is to play duenna 
for all of us.” 

“No, no, Janie,” Sabina said. “ I should most likely be 
tired by that time of night, and you wouldn’t want a kill- 
joy to come in among a lot of young folks amusing them- 
selves.” 

“ But you can’t help going, Sabie, dear,” her friend said, 
insidiously. 

‘ ‘ Indeed ! And why ?’ ’ 

“ Not when I tell you that you will confer a great kind- 
ness on sevei'al people, and on two in particular. That is 
enough reason for you, Sabie.” 

Sabina laughed ; it was a dexterous piece of flattery. 

“ But who are the two people in particular?” she 
asked. 

“ Mr. Lindsay is the one, and I am the other.” 

“ Then I will go to please you,” Sabina said, in her frank 
and generous way ; and forthwith the glad-hearted Janie 
made swiftly for her own room to send a little note to Mr. 
Lindsay, informing him of the joyful news. 

As the eventful evening drew near, the little Mrs. Wy- 
gram assumed a more and more important air ; for she had 
undertaken to superintend the domestic arrangements for 
the young artist ; and she was in all his secrets, and very 
earnest were their confabulations together. But one after-' 
noon she came home looking rather puzzled. 

“Janie,” she said to her daughter, “ what is it about a 
falcon?” 

“What falcon, mother?” 

“ I don’t understand at all; but twice to-day he has said 


86 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


the same thing. You see I was remonstrating with him 
about his extravagance, and really the way he is going on 
is absurd. Oh, I assure you there is nothing in Coven t 
Garden half good enough. I believe he would telegraph 
to the Brazils if there was time to get back the things. 
Well, I was saying how absurd it was, and that people did 
not expect such entertainments at a bachelor’s house; and 
then it was he said, ‘ I wish there was nothing left but my 
falcon.’ And then again he said, ‘ But when is the falcon 
to be brought in?’ And when I asked him what falcon, he 
only laughed and turned to something else.” 

“Mother,” cried Janie, “don’t- you know? Don’t you 
know the old Italian story?” 

The mother looked as puzzled as ever. 

“ Why, it has been told a hundred times. It was about 
a young gentleman of Florence who wasted all his wealth 
in giving entertainments to please his lady-love ; but she 
did not care for him. She married some one else ; and he 
went away into the country, very poor, and having noth- 
ing left him but his pet falcon. Then by and by she be- 
came a widow, and she was living in the country too ; and 
her little boy fell sick, and nothing would do but that he 
must have the falcon that he had seen fljung over the 
neighboring garden. So she went with another lady to the 
house, and there was her former lover and he was greatly 
distressed that there was nothing in the house he could 
have cooked for them, for she had said that she would eat 
something. Do you understand now, mother? He bade 
his servant go quickly and strangle the falcon — the last of 
all his possessions— and that was cooked and brought in 
and set before them. And then, of course, when the lady 
made her request about the falcon, he had to confess what 
he had done in order to entertain her ; and she was so much 
struck by his generosity that she fell in love with him and 
married him. Have you never heard the story? The 
young gentleman’s name was Federigo, and the lady’s 
Monna Giovanna. And you may be sure that was wliat 
Mr. Lindsay meant, mother ; and very certain I am that he 
would be content to part with everything he has, and to 
sacrifice pet falcon and everything else, if that would only 
win him his Monna Giovanna.” 

“And who may she be?” the mother said demurely. 

“Oh, of course you don’t know, mother! It would 
never enter your head — not for a moment— that it was 
our Sabie who is Mr. Lindsay’s Monna Giovanna?” 

“ What fools men are!” the mother sighed. 

“They may or they may not be; I don’t know,” the 
daughter said, valiantly; “but I do know that if I were a 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 37 

man I should consider myself a fool if I were not in love 
with Sabie.” 

And at length the great evening arrived, and everything 
had been done that the most anxious consideration could 
think of ; and all that was wanting now was the presence 
of Sabina to irradiate the feast. As a matter of fact, she 
and Mrs. Wygram and Janie came rather late. All the 
others had assembled, and were idling away the time in 
the studio, laughing and joking, and examining the 
sketches; but Walter Lindsay was in front of the house 
by himself, and rather nervously waiting. Then there 
was the noise of a cab, the gate-bell was rung, and the next 
moment he was outside and down through the little garden, 
just in time to receive them. This was rather a dusky 
thoroughfare, and the yellow gas -lamps gave but little 
relief ; but it seemed to him that when Sabina stepped out 
on to the pavement — so tall and queenly she was, and yet 
with such a frank and generous good-nature in her face — 
that there was some kind of moonlight around. He had 
eyes only for her ; he was a little bewildered ; she seemed 
something radiant— here in the dusk. 

“ It is very kind of you to come,” he said; “ but he did 
not know what he was saying. 

He accompanied them into the house : could this beauti- 
ful creature know how great a favor she was conferring 
by merely stepping within the door? And she smiled so 
graciously on the little maid who asked them to go into 
the improvised cloak-room: did she know that that too 
was a kindness? that she could so easily make friends with 
her winning looks and her gentle manner? But at this 
moment Janie Wygram hung back from her companions, 
and said to him, in a half- whisper: 

“ Is the falcon being cooked?” 

‘ ‘ There is no such luck for me,” said he; and then he 
added, quickly, “ But do you think, now, that Miss Zembra 
could be prevailed upon to take aAvay some little thing as 
a souvenir? There are all kinds of things in this studio. 
If you found her interested in any of them, could you give 
me a hint? Anything, no matter what— anything in the 
house.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Miss Janie; but she could not add 
another word then, for she had to follow her companions 
into the cloak-room. 

Forthwith he sent word to have supper served as soon 
as possible; and when these new guests reappeared he 
would have them remain in the drawing-room. He seemed 
to forget the others whom he had left in the studio. It 
was Sabina whom he wanted to look at these sketches, 
and medallions, and miniatures, and what not- and so 


38 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


anxious was he to interest her, and so strangely did the 
magic of her presence affect him, that his fingers were not 
so steady as they might have been. 

“ Why, your hand shakes,” she said (for she was rather 
blunt-spoken on occasion). “ What is it? Too much Arts 
Club at midnight?” 

It was a cruel speech, though it was not meant cruelly. 
How could he explain to her what it was that made his 
hand a trifle unsteady? Or how could he say to her that 
he would willingly never enter within the doors of the 
Arts Club again if she but expressed the slightest wish on 
the subject? 

‘‘But your other friends, Mr. Lindsay?” said Mrs. 
Wj^gram, who considered herself responsible for the proper 
conduct of the proceedings. ‘‘ Should we not go into the 
studio?” 

“Oh, no,” said he. “They’re all right. Borella is 
there; he will keep them lively enough.” In fact, they 
could hear the sound of a piano in the distance. “ That is 
another thing I wanted to warn you about, Miss Janie. 
Don’t you keep insisting on encores. Borella is the best 
fellow in the world, but he is rather noisy, and he likes to 
monopolize the piano. Now, when he wants to go, let him 
go, and then we shall have a nice quiet evening by our- 
selves.” 

Of course, Miss Janie knew very well it was about Sabina 
he was thinking ; perhaps she might not like too hilarious 
an evening ; for there was something grave and serious in 
her manner, even with all its gracious sweetness. 

Then came the butler (he was a butler only at night ; by 
day he was an old-man model, favorably known through- 
out the studios for his prominent nose and shaggy eye- 
brows; it should be said, moreover, that his ability in both 
capacities was marked, and that he could decant a bot- 
tle of port just as well as he could pose as an ancient High- 
land cateran, or a scowling miser, or a smiling grandpapa) 
to say that supper was served; and Mr. Lindsay escorted 
these three guests into the dining room! It was a clever 
little scheme. 

“ Miss Zembra,” said he, “will you take this seat, if you 
please? Mrs. Wygram has been so kind as to offer to take 
the other end of the table— she can see that things are 
going on rightly — and — and the servants understand ” 

It was a clever little scheme; for now, without fear of 
any mistake. Miss Zembra would be seated next him, and 
on his right hand also; and there awaiting her was the 
bouquet he had himself designed for her; while Mrs. Wy- 
gram, instead of being annoyed at not finding herself in 
the pl^ce of honor, considered herself promoted to the pq- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


39 


pitioii of mistress of the feast. Janie Wygram smiled to 
herself, but said nothing; and with a light heart Walter 
Lindsay went away to summon his other guests from the 
studio. 

It was a pretty scene at that supper- table when they had 
all come in and taken their places— the shining silver and 
the Venetian glass; the shaded candles shedding a soft 
roseate glow on the cover; the abundant flowers; the 
baskets of fruit ; the faces of the young men and maidens 
growing blither as the talk became more and more ani- 
mated. And if there was a trifle too much noise in the neigh- 
borhood of the black-a-vised barytone — who was telling 
very, very old stories in half-intelligible English, and laugh- 
ing boisterously at the same — well, that was all the more con- 
venient for any of the quieter folk, who perhaps had their 
own little sentences (timid, and hesitating, and hardly 
daring to say all that might be said) to communicate to each 
other in their small, separate sets. Walter Lindsay was 
not sorry to be able to murmur a word or two unheard by 
the general crowd, even if there was no particular secret 
to be conveyed ; it was something that he could speak to 
Sabina, as it were, alone. And then she was looking so 
beautiful this evening — so calm, and bland, and complais- 
ant ; and the gracious outline of her neck, as she bent for- 
ward a little to listen, was something to steal one’s heart 
away. Her step-mother had said she was a dowdy in her 
dress. Well, on ordinary busy days she generally wore a 
tight-fitting gown of brownish-gray homespun, with a 
jacket to match ; and her brown felt bonnet was service- 
able enough ; and if you had met her in Kensington, High 
Street, or in Cromwell Eoad, you would think little of the 
costume, though perhaps her stature and her gait, and the 
set of her head, might have attracted a brief notice. But 
to-night there was naturally something different. She 
wore a dress of pale-blue Indian silk, with ei fichu of faintly 
yellow lace coming round the neck and bosom; and for sole 
ornament, where the fichu met the gown, there was a 
bunch of real forget-me-nots. Walter Lindsay looked 
at these from time to . time. What falcon would he not 
have sacriflced to gain possession of any one of them?” 

And yet he had a little score to settle with her. If any 
other person had told him that he had a shaky hand, he 
would not have heeded much ; besides, such was not the 
case, for, although he had the artist’s temperament, and 
was exceedingly sensitive in many ways, his nerves were 
as sound as a bell. But that Sabina should have taunted 
him was too bad : and her reference to the Arts Club ! 

“Miss Zembra,” he made bold to say (but still in that 


40 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


undertone that he seemed to prefer), “ what did you mean 
by*saying that my hand shook?” 

“ Did I?” she said, and she looked up. And then some- 
thing in his manner appeared to amuse her. “ If I hurt 
your feelings I am very sorry.” 

“What do you mean by too much Arts Club at mid- 
night?” said he, for he was determined to clear himself of 
the charge. 

“ I am a hospital nurse on occasion,” she said, laughing. 
“ I suppose I spoke professionally. But really I did not 
mean anything serious, Mr. Lindsay — oh, of course not.” 

“Oh, but I’m going to have it out with you,” said he. 
“I want just to see whether you or I have the steadier 
hand ” 

“No, no; if I apologize to you ” 

“ But I want to see. Now, just you lift your wineglass, 
and I will hold up mine, and we will see who can let them 
come closest without actually touching.” 

Well, she was good-natured; they went through that 
little performance, and certainly both their hands now 
seemed steady enough. 

“Can I do more than apologize?” she said, as she put 
down her glass again. “I did not mean to offend you.” 

“ Offend me!” He looked at her; that was all. 

Meanwhile, the robust barytone had chanced to catch 
sight of that raising of glasses, and imagining that it was 
merely the revival of an old custom, he set to work at his 
end of the table, and presently there was a good deal of 
drinking of healths and clinking of glasses, with even an 
occassional “ Stosst an! — setzt an!—fertig! — losp- It was 
in the midst of this hubbub of chatter and merriment that 
Mrs. Wygram found an opportunity of saying to her 
daughter, who happened to sit next her. 

“Janie, don’t look up the table, but do you know what 
is going on? I can tell you. Are you aware that your 
darling Sabina is showing herself as nothing else than an 
outrageous flirt?” 

“Sh^e is not, mother!” Janie said, indignantly. “She 
doesn’t know what flirtation is!” 

“It’s a remarkably good imitation of it, then, that is 
going on up there,” said the little old lady, still with her 
eyes cast down. “I’ve never seen anything worse any- 
where. Why, Mr. Lindsay has not said a word to a soul 
since we sat down to supper; he has eyes and ears for no- 
body but her!” 

“And whose fault is that?” said Janie; “that is his 
fault, not hers. Of course, she is kind to him, as she would 
be to any one sitting in his place. It’s little you know 
about Sabie if you think that of her.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


41 


“I can use my eyes,” said Mrs. Wygram, “ and they’re 
older than yours, my girl.” 

“ You know you’re only saying that to vex me, mother; 
and you can’t do it. No, you can’t; I know Sabie better 
than that.” 

” At all events,” the mother said, to close this under^ 
hand discussion— “ at all events, Mr. Lindsay is having 
one happy evening in his life.” 

Nor was Mrs. Wygram the only one who was casually 
observant of what was going on at the upper end of the 
table. A tall, rather good-looking fellow — a recently 
elected Associate he was, and very proud of his new hon- 
ors — said to his neighbor, who was a lively little maiden 
with a roseate face, a piquant nose, and raven-black hair ; 

‘‘Who is the lady of the forget-me-nots?” 

She glanced up the table. 

” Oh, don’t you know? That is Miss Zembra— a daugh- 
ter of Sir Anthony Zembra — the Parliament man, don’t you 
know? Pretty, isn’t she?” 

“ How long have Walter Lindsay and she known each 
other?” he asked. There was some kind of significance in 
his tone. 

“I think for some time,” said his companion. “ But I 
believe she lias never been in his house before. She doesn’t 
care for such things— nursing babies and old women is more 
in her line. It’s all very well, if they would only wash 
their faces.” 

‘‘ Oh, they’ve known each other for some time?” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Oh, they’ve known each other for some time?” 

What did he mean by this repetition? What he was try- 
ing to do, at all events, was to get his companion to raise 
her eyes to his, to ask what his meaning was ; but she was 
a shrewd little lass, and knew better than to be drawn into 
any such understanding. 

“Well, I suppose it’a none of my business,” he said, 
finally ; and that was a very sensible conclusion. 

And now did Walter Lindsay call down the blessings of 
Heaven on Borella’s wildly matted head; for the noisy 
barytone had taken to performing conjuring tricks, and 
the attention of every one at the table was directed toward 
him. And Sabina wished to look on also, for she loved 
amusement as well as any one, when the chance was there; 
but her companion would not let her. He was sure she 
had had no supper at all. A little more wine, then? for 
she seemed to like the perfume of that golden-clear vino di 
Capri. He was so sorry she had had no supper. It was 
a shame that she had come to his house merely to be 
starved ; perhaps she would never come again, after such 


42 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


treatment? Some fruit, then, just to show that she had 
not been quite neglected? Not a slice of pineapple, nor 
half a dozen grapes, even? Some strawberries, then? 

“Grapes and strawberries in the middle of March?” she 
said, with a smile. “Eeally, it is perfectly wicked.” 

And then there was on his lips some wild reference to 
Ser Ferderigo’s envied happiness in the destruction of his 
falcon; but fortunately he did not go so far; he con- 
tented himself with engrossing her attention so that she 
could not see any of the conjuring; and he would have her 
tell him more of her experiences among the mudlarks down 
Lambeth way. Were they all so cynical? And not so 
grateful to her as they might be? Was she not afraid of 
having her pocket picked? And that one of them who was 
her champion and chief confidant— could he be found out 
now by a stranger? Would he like to have a good, sub- 
stantial, midday dinner given him, and thereafter a boat, 
that he might sail on the ponds in Battersea Park, suppos- 
ing that such amusement were permitted? 

Well, Sabina had a generous faculty of being pleased 
with whomsoever was talking to her for the moment; and 
he was her host, moreover; and all the others were occu- 
pied with their own affairs ; so she had leisure to tell him 
about these and other things. And even the glamour of 
her clear, soft hazel eyes was working him further and 
further woe. Her rounded, white arms were near him; 
the dimple in her cheek showed when she laughed; her 
beautiful brown hair was still more beautiful in the softened 
light. But these things were as nothing. It was her eyes 
he sought, and these were so friendly and pleased and be- 
nignant that who would have accused them of working him 
woe? Nor did he care. He drank the sweet madness, the 
fell poison, without stint, and recklessly and joyously ; this 
night was to be at least one happy night in his life; he had 
Sabie all to himself, and he was drinking in her pleased 
glances and her smiles as if they were strong wine ; the 
years to come, whatever there might be in them, could 
never deprive him of that gold and rose-tinted memory. 

At length the conjuring came to an end; and it was Herr 
Borella himself who suggested that they should go away 
into the studio to have a little music; he had to leave soon, 
he explained. And then there was a fetching of wraps for 
the women-folk; and somehow Walter Lindsay managed 
to secure Sabina’s long fur cloak; and he it was who 
put it round her shoulders, and would even insist that it 
was properly fastened at the throat, for the night was 
cold. When they went outside into the back garden, 
at the further end of which Avas the studio, they found 
that the night skies had grown clearer, and stars Avero 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


43 


shining palely overhead. Sabina thought of the dark 
early morning in East London, and of her crossing from 
the nurse’s dormitory to the wards ; she was a little grave 
as the ghost-like procession passed along from the house 
through this weird gloom to the yellow light of the studio- 
door. 

All within there, however, was brightness ; the gases and 
candles lit; the fire burning briskly ; the piano open; plenty 
of music scattered everywhere. The great barytone set to 
work at once; he was frank enough. ‘ H'e sung them ‘‘O 
du, mein holder Abendstern,” from ^ Tannhauser a 
young lady in spectacles accompanying him; and then he 
himself sat down at the piano and sung: 

“ Fern in die Welt, 

Weit, weit von dir, 

Strahlet dein Bild 
Tief, tief in mir.” 

One would scarcely have expected a man who had been so 
boisterous and uproarious at supper to sing with so much 
feeling; but the quality of his art was very fine indeed; 
more than one young woman there was rather lumpy 
about the throat when he finished. Then, after he had sung 
one or two more things, and bade such as he knew good- 
night, and lighted a big cigar and gone away, the young 
folks began on their own account; and as there happened 
to be lying open a volume of old-fashioned glees and 
madrigals and duets, they were soon in the midst of these. 
It was a careless, happy-go-lucky series of performances; 
when they broke down they turned over the page to the 
next one; "sometimes a new-comer would stroll along and 
give them a helping hand. But the young lady in specta- 
cles knew her business, at all events ; and so in one way 
or another they got along with laughter and jests thrown 
in. Now it was “ Foresters, sound the cheerful horn,” or 
“ The chough and crow to roost are gone,” or “Hark, the 
bonny Christ Church bells, ” or “ Here’s health to all good 
lasses;” and again it was, “Chloe found Amyntas lying,” 
or 

“ Sigh no more, ladies; ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever.” 

All this while Walter Lindsay was seated on a sofa with 
Sabina as his sole companion. On coming into the studio 
he had perforce paid a little attention to his other guests; 
but once he had got them fairly started on this occupation, 
he had gone back to her— how could he help it? And 
Sabina sat and listened, her hands folded, her eyes pleased ; 
she had the air of one looking on, rather than of one par- 
ticipating; but surely it was with no unkindly regard. 


44 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

“ How pretty that is!” she said, rather wistfully, on one 
occasion. 

The tall, yoiing associate was at the piano; and it was 
his neighbor at supper who had now taken the place of the 
spectacled young lady, and he was bending over the ac- 
companist, so that their heads were very near together— 
his a fair chestnut brown, hers raven black. And they 
were singing — with a careless bass thrown in by a gentle- 
man standing opposite the fire : 

“ Tell me, shepherds, have you seen 
My Flora pass this way?” 

“ Yes, it is a pretty air,” Walter Lindsay said. 

” Ah, but I did not mean that,” Sabina said, in her low 
voice. “ It is the picture that looks so pretty —the two 
young people together— and singing ” 

And why, asked Lindsay of himself, should she look and 
speak so wistfully? Was she not herself young and more 
beautiful than any? Was she to be forever a spectator? 
Did she regard herself as one cut off from the amusements, 
the associations, the hopes of young people? And where 
w^s the need of any such sacrifice? 

. “ Tell warbled the young lady at the piano; ‘‘ Tell 
me/” roared the basso at the fireplace; ^' Shepherds, have 
you seenf\ struck in the young Associate, who had a very 
fair tenor voice; but Lindsay did not heed them; he was 
thinking of Sabina, and of her way of life, and of her fut- 
ure. And if he was bold enough to consider how easy it 
would be for her to give him one of those forget-me-nots? 
Well, if that wild fancy crossed his mind, it was but for a 
moment. He was far away from that, and he knew it. 
But why should he fret? Sabina was here, and by his 
side : and she was bland and smiling and kind, and ever 
he drank fresh draughts of bewildering gladness and mad- 
ness from the shining beauty of her eyes. 

By this time the black- haired maiden at the piano had 
had enough of duets and glees. 

“Go and get up a dance,” she said, in her imperative 
way to her companion; and as the young painter dutifully 
obeyed she began to play the slow and gracious music of a 
minuet. However, it was no minuet that was in the 
young lady’s mind. She only wished in that way to in- 
troduce the idea of dancing. As soon as the easels and 
chairs and couches had been removed, and the young men 
w’ere choosing their partners, she started off with “Sir 
Koger de Coverley,” and that at a rattling pace. 

“ Will you join them?” Walter Lindsay said to his com- 
panion. 

“ 1 think I would rather look on,” Sabina answered. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 45 

“Then give me the dance, and we will sit it out to- 
gether,” said he. 

She nodded and smiled ; that was more to her liking. 

“Will you give me them all on the same terms?” said 
he, quickly. “ I don’t wish to dance.” 

But she did not answer this ; she was looking on with in- 
terest at the formation of the two long lines. 

And so Lindsay and this fell enchantress were left to- 
gether again ; and as the wild romp in the middle of the 
floor went on, he was telling her all about his work and his 
plans for the summer (in answer to her questions, of 
course), and he was describing to her the secret sylvan 
haunts he knew, and the remote little inns he stayed at, 
and so forth ; and as all this naturally led up to his draw- 
ings and sketches, he took her away into a corner to show 
her a big portfolio of these. And meanwhile he was form- 
ing a dark design in his brain. When the “ Sir Roger de 
Coverley” ended, he withdrew from her side for a mo- 
ment. 

“Percy,” he said to the tall young painter, “get up a 
cotillon.” 

“Don’t know how.” 

“Oh, yes, you do,” was the hurried rejoinder. “Any- 
body will show you. Do, like a good fellow — and look 
sharp!” 

And then he was back at her side again. Now, in the cor- 
ner where the portfolio was, there stood a triangular Chip- 
pendale cabinet, filled with various kinds of bric-a-brac ; 
and among these — and the gem of the collection — was a 
small chalice of rock-crystal, elaborately studded round 
with uncut stones of diverse colors. In itself it was a most 
beautiful thing; besides which it was obviously of great age 
and value. Sabina was looking in at these shelves with a 
woman’s curiosity. 

“ Do you know what that dance is?” he asked of her. 

She glanced over her shoulder carelessly. 

“No.” 

“It is a cotillon,” said he, rather breathlessly. “And 
you gave it me, you know.” 

“Did I?” said she, with something of an amused look; 
what could it matter whether she had made this useless 
promise or not? 

“ Oh yes, you did,” he said, eagerly. “We are in it, 
if we choose. And do you know what the peculiarity of 
1 his dance is?— that you are allowed to m"ake your partner 
a little present. Oh. I assure you it is so— and — and this 
is what I want you to accept from me.” 

He opened the cabinet, and took out the j'ewel-bestudded 
wine-cup. Sabina rather shrunk back. 


46 Sabina zembra. 

“ Oh no, no, no,” she said. “ You are very kind— but- > 
but I have no place to keep such things — besides, I could 
not take it. Mr. Lindsay, please be kind enough not to 
ask me.” 

Her eyes were earnest ; and they could make him do any- 
thing. But he was unsatisfied, and anxious, and a little 
bit reckless, perhaps. 

“Then if you will not take, will you give?” he mads 
bold to say, but under his breath. “ Miss Janie says that 
is more in your way. And if I ask a favor of you? You 
will not take this little cup: well, you could make it thirty 
times more valuable to me if you would drink something 
out of it. Will you?” 

She looked surprised, but not offended ; she did not quite 
understand. 

“ Why, what difference will that make?” she said. But 
before she had finished the words he had gone away, over 
to a little buffet that Mrs. Wygram was improvising for 
the dancers, and the next moment he had returned with a 
bottle of wine in his hand. He poured a little of the foam- 
ing fluid into the chalice, and offered it to her. 

“ Is it a ceremony?” Sabina asked, with a smile, and she 
took the chalice from him. 

“ Yes, it is part of the dance,” he answered, glad of any 
excuse that would obtain for him this gracious favor. 

“Do I say anything? Do I wish anything?” Sabina 
asked. 

“ I will do the wishing,” he answered, quickly; and 
then she raised the wine- cup to her lips and drank a little, 
and then gave it back to him. He could only look his 
thanks. 

Mrs. Wj'gram’s eyes had followed him across the room. 

* “ And what do you think of your Sahie now?” she ex- 
claimed to her daughter, who was assisting her. 

“ Just the same as ever — why?” was Janie’s answer. 

“You did not see what she did just now?” 

“No.” 

“ Well, then. I’ll tell you; she drank out of that crystal 
wine-cup just to please him, I suppose, and he put it back 
in the cabinet!” 

“And why shouldn’t she?” said Janie, bravely. “To 
please him?— very well. She would do that or anything 
else to please any man, woman, or child who happened to 
be there. Mother, what has set you all of a sudden against 
Sahie? You know it’s just her universal kindness.” 

“ Kindness!” said the mother, with a gentle sarcasm. 
“ Perhaps it is. But I have never seen a more abominable 
piece of flirtation in all my born days.” And with that 
she went to bid the model-butler bring some more lemon- 


I^ABIlSrA ZEMBRA. 


47 


a^e and seltzer-water ; for the young lady at the piano had 
begun to play a wild Highland schottische, and Mrs. 
Wygram had enough experience of these scratcli parties to 
know what that meant. 

They kept up the merrymaking to a very early hour 
indeed; but after Sabina and the Wy grams had taken 
their departure, Lindsay did not seem to heed much what 
was going forward. And at last he was left alone in this 
big studio, with the disjecta membra of the revels all around 
him ; and he sat him down to think over everything that 
had happened during that eventful evening, even to the 
smallest details, wherever Sabina had been concerned. 

And so Ser Federigo had not sacrificed his falcon, after 
all — though his offer of the jeweled cfialice was a little ten- 
tative effort in that direction. No; so far from his being 
poorer by her coming to his house, he was ever so much 
the richer: that was like Sabina, as the faithful Janie 
would have maintained. The whole of this big studio 
seemed saturated with the charm and wonder of her pres- 
ence. Here she had sat, her hands folded in her lap, talk- 
ing to him in her softly modulated voice; there she had 
stood, her beautiful neck bent over the drawings and 
sketches, her praise and admiration frank and ready 
enough ; it was by the side of that easel she had taken the 
wine- cup — now a hundred times more precious. to him than 
it had been before — into her gentle hand, and raised it, and 
touched the rim with her proudly cut lips, and given it 
him back with so gracious a smile. He was beginning to 
understand her now. If you said “ Take !” her answer was 
“No;” if you said “Give!” her answer was “Yes.” But 
all through these visions and recalling of visions it was 
lier eyes that chiefly he saw; and they Avere regarding him 
somehow; and always they were pleased, and generous, 
and benignant toward him. He made no effort to banish 
the memory of that look. 


CHAPTER VI. 

TO BRIGHTON: 

Sabina was unused to late hours and late suppers. Next 
morning she found herself less brisk than was her wont ; 
and so, having dispatched Janie Wygram on certain er- 
rands down in the Chelsea direction, she thought she would 
take a longer walk than usual, and go round by Hyde Park 
on her way to Lancaster Gate. And very soon the fresh 
air revived her. It was one of those sudden spring-like 
days that occasionally show themselves in March; a bland 
south wind was blowing; the Serpentine was shimmering 
in silver; the pale-brown roads dividing the level breadths 


48 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


of greensward looked pleasant enough in the warm sun- 
light ; and every leafless branch of the elms and maples 
was deflned sharp and black against the blue sky. There 
was a kind of happy murmur all around, and a look of life 
and animation among the nondescript crowd. Carriages 
rolled by with their occupants wrapped in their winter furs ; 
nurse-maids were chatting as they pushed before them 
the somnolent perambulator; charming young horsewomen 
were walking side by side, and perchance exchanging con- 
fidences about the last night’s ball ; children were calling, 
dogs scampering, sparrows twittering; everywhere there 
was life and motion and sound— and it was a sound as of 
gladness somehow. 

And, of course, Sabina thought of the poor young fellow 
who was shut out from all this and kept a close prisoner 
there ; and her heart was filled with pity for him ; and half 
unconsciously she walked as quickly as she could, so as to 
give him as soon as possible the solace of her companion- 
ship. It is true— though she did not like to confess it to 
herself— that she had begun to suspect of late that he was 
not quite so grateful for her society, and her efforts to 
amuse him, as he might be. He seemed to be very well 
content with the sporting papers, and with the less officious 
conversation of the professional nurse. Perhaps, then, she 
—that is, Sabina— bored him somewhat? Perhaps he did 
not want to be bothered with the formality of talking to a 
young lady ? Perhaps he might even consider her a little 
bit of a nuisance? Sabina did not like to dwell on these 
questions, because they sounded like pique; and,. of course, 
it did not matter to her whether he was grateful for her 
volunteered companionship or not. 

On this morning she found him in very gay spirits in- 
deed; a nmnber of things contributing. Mrst of all, 
Schiller had won the Shipley Hall Handicap on the previ • 
ous Tuesday, and Mr. Fred Foster was now in ample funds; 
but this she knew, for she had been the gainer by that vic- 
tory of ten pounds.. Then, again, the horse that he had 
backed for the Lincolnshire Handicap, at 20 to 1 against, 
had quite suddenly risen in popular estimation, and was 
now first favorite, at 100 to 12 ; and here wafe a fine oppor 
tunity for a little business! But the chief and glorious 
news was that the doctor had consented to his removal ; 
and arrangements were now being made for his being con- 
veyed to Brighton. 

“Do you know Brighton, Miss Zembra?” he said, 
eagerly. “ Oh, I do, I can tell you; I know it just down 
to the ground. I sha’n’t want for amusement. You see, 
I’ll have rooms in the King’s Road ; they’re not very dear 
just now, and I can be wheeled out to the end of the West 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


49 


Pier like the other cripples, and read the papers, and listen 
to the band. Then there’s a telegraph office at the foot of 
the pier if one wants to do a little business. Then there’s 
the tennis-court ; they’ll let me look on, I suppose. Then 
the billiard- rooms, but I suppose they wouldn’t like my 
hearse brought in there. When I can sport about in a 
Bath-chair, however, I know one shop where I shall be 
welcome enough. And then, the fellows I know are al- 
ways running down to Brighton — to the Old Ship; I should 
hear what was going on ; they won’t leave me out in the 
cold. I’m not likely to be tempted, like the ordinary stay- 
at-home backer, to try a system ” 

“ A system?” she said, with inquiring eyebrows. 

“Well, a system is a machine for making it certain that 
you drop your money — that’s all,” he explained. “But 
why should I bore you with such things — you don’t under- 
stand. And you seem a little bit tired this morning. Miss 
Zembra.” 

She told him something of the festivities of the night be- 
fore ; and said that though they were mild enough, she was 
not used to them, and confessed to being a trifle fagged. 

“ That kind of thing would not suit me at all,” he said, 
frankly. “ I like to keep myself fit all the way round — 
fit for a steeple- chase course, or a thousand up at billiards, 
or a pigeon shoot, or anything. Now, I’ll tell you the kind 
of feast I like— a breakfast at Jem Reid’s — Reid, the 
trainer, you know. Well, now, that is the prettiest 
thing that I have any acquaintance with; Mrs. Reid, 
buxom and fresh as a daisy, at the head of the table; an 
excellent breakfast ; fried soles done to a turn ; bacon crisp 
and hot from the fender, a devilled kidney or two, and the 
best coffee in the world. Then, as you’re forging ahead, 
you may chance to glance out of the window, and there is 
a string of horses marching past on their way to the heath, 
and just as like as not you’ll hear Mrs. Reid say, ‘ Well, I 
for one, don’t object to seeing the touts coming about; it 
shows they think we have some horses worth watching.’ 
After a breakfast like that, I’m flt for the day; I can do 
without anything else all day long; there’s never any 
‘sinking ’ bothers me.” 

“You ought to be very thankful you have such a con- 
stitution,” Sabina said; she could not help noticing the 
clearness of his complexion, where the sun-tan still lingered, 
and also the brilliant liquidness of his eyes, which were like 
those of a school-boy in the briskest of health. 

“ It’s just luck,” he said, in his usual saturnine fashion. 
“ I happened to be born like that. I might have been one 
of those miserable devils who can’t go on for a couple of 


50 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


hours without a sherry-and -bitters. I don’t blame them, 
but I’d rather be as I am.” 

“And when do you go to Brighton?” Sabina asked; it 
occurred to her then that the house would become strangely 
empty and uninteresting when he was gone. 

“As soon as my catafalque is got ready,” he said, with 
cheerful good-humor. “And I shall be precious glad to 
get there. Not entirely on my own account — I’m afraid 
you must think me an awfully selfish brute, don’t you? — 
no, it’s partly on account of the mater. You see, as 
soon as I can date my letters from Brighton, she will be 
convinced that nothing very serious has happened. I 
have been mortally afraid of the old lady turning up in. 
London, and getting alarmed when she found I wasn’t 
in Bury Street. As for my father, I suppose he’s disap- 
pointed that I haven’t broken my neck. He has been 
prophesying these dozen years back that that would be the 
end of me ; and people like their prophecies to come off, you 
know.” 

“It has been bad enough as it is,” said Sabina, “but I 
am sure you have bori^^ your imprisonment so far with 
very great courage. Most men would have fretted and 
complained, and found the forced idleness almost unendur- 
able. I hope you will never have such an experience again ; 
but I must say you make an admirable patient.” 

Now. surely, here was an opportunity for him to show 
himself a little grateful to the young lady who had given 
him so much of her time and attention. It could have 
been easily done; nay, was there not almost an invitation 
in what she had said ? But he did not seem to take it that 
way. He humorously remarked that he hoped soon to be 
about again, but that he would take care not to challenge 
John Roberts, Jr., to play 3,000 up for a considerable time 
to come. 

There were one or two questions of some delicacy arose ere 
he could take his departure for Brighton. 

“ You know, Miss Zembra,” he said, in his usual matter- 
of-fact way, “ I am quite aware that your people have 
wished me at Jericho ever since I came into the house, and 
I don’t wish to be indebted to people who wish me at Jeri- 
cho ; at the same time, I should be sorry to offend you by 
offering to pay for my board.” 

“Please, we will not speak of it,” said Sabina. 

“It’s an awkward time of the year— if I could send 
them some game ’ ’ 

He saw that he only vexed her, and he dropped the sub- 
ject, privately reserving to himself the right of bountifully 
tipping the servants, for he was in ample funds at the mo- 
ment. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


51 


Sabina, on her side, found herself quite unable to induce 
either her father or Lady Zembra to say a word of farewell 
to their unbidden and unwelcome guest. She represented 
to them what a gross discourtesy this would be to a man 
who was distinctly a gentleman ; and that even common 
humanity demanded that they should be well-disposed to 
one who had suffered injury through a member of the 
family. But no; Sir Anthony, when he had said a thing, 
stuck to it; and he had declared he would have nothing 
whatsoever to do with this stranger; and Lady Zembra 
was only too glad to escape from bother by following the 
example of her lord. Sabina tried to make some little 
explanation and apology to Mr. Fred Foster himself; but 
that 3'Oung gentleman only laughed good-naturedly, said 
he understood the whole situation, and that, in their 
position, he would have been precisely in the same state of 
mind. 

Both Janie Wy^am and Sabina went to Victoria Station 
to see him off, and it was then that Janie saw him for the 
first time. 

“He does not seem much of an invalid,”^ said Janie, 
aside, observing his sun-browned complexion and clear 
blue eyes. 

‘ ‘ Poor fellow, ’ ’ Sabina said ; ‘ ‘ just imagine what it must 
be for one who has led so active a life to be chained down 
like that. And the doctor says it may be months before he 
can walk about. I have never seen any one so patient and 
cheerful.” 

“ I should have thought he was quick-tempered by the 
color of his hair— carroty curls always go with a short 
temper,” said Janie, who had not forgotten her grudge 
against this luckless young man. 

However, Sabina did not reply to this remark; for she 
had to step into the caiTiage to bid Mr. Foster good-bye. 

“You won’t forget to let me know how you get on at 
Brighton?” said she. 

“Why should I bother you?” he said. 

“ But I particularly wish to know, and as often as it is 
convenient, ” she persisted. “You can’t imagine how glad 
I shall be when I hoar that 3"Ou are getting about again, 
and shaking off the last traces of that dreadful accident. ” 

“ Oh, very well, ” said he. “ But don’t you bother about 
me. I shall soon be skipping about again like a two-j^ear- 
old.” 

“Good-bye,” she said, and she gave him her hand. 

“Good-bye, Miss Zembra,” said he, and he added: “you 
know you’ve been awfully kind to me. I wish I knew 
hpw to repay you. If you were a man, I could,” 


52 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


“ Indeed?’' she said, lightly, for she guessed there was 
some small joke in his mind. 

“Yes, I could. I’d advise you to put every penny you 
have in the world on Cherry Blossom for the Grand 

National.” . , , ^ i i 

The train was already moving; she had to step quickly 
back, and then she waved her hand to him from the plat- 

“Poor fellow,” she said almost to herself, “half of his 
cheerfulness is only pretense. He feels it more than he 
would have any one think.” 

And Janie looked at her with a curious glance ; then they 
turned and left the station together, and in silence. 


CHAPTER VII. 

BY THE SHANNON SHORE. 

For ordinary lovesickness there is no more prompt and 
efficacious cure than marriage; but for the heartache be- 
gotten of hopeless love, where is the cure? It is a disease 
that peopleware for the most part ashamed of ; they conceal 
it assiduously ; and therefore it may be assumed to be more 
prevalent than appears. Walter Lindsay, at all events, 
could find no cure, though he tried many. For he was in- 
ordinately vexed wuth himself that in walking along High 
Street, Kensington, he could not see a tall woman in the 
distance without his heart leaping up with some wild hope 
that it might be Sabina. And why, each time that he 
went home, was there a great disappointment for him on 
finding there no letter from Janie Wygram, with some 
chance mention of Sabina in it? Janie Wygram could not 
keep continually writing to him apropos of nothing. The 
most serious interests of his life were interfered with by 
this agony of vague unrest ; his work was done now, not 
for the world, that was willing enough to welcome it, but 
that it might perchance win him a smile of Sabina’s ap- 
proval. And as for the hopelessness of his passion — well, 
he had not studied her every gesture and look, he had not 
listened to Janie’s minute and intimate description of her 
ways of life, and her hopes, and opinions, and interests, 
all for nothing; and well he knew that marriage formed no 
part of Sabina’s plans for the future. She was very kind 
to him— for she was kind to everybody ; and if he were ill, 
he thought she might be sorry : and for the passing hour — 
as had happened the other evening — she would smile on 
him, and be generous, and gracious, and bland. But as for 
anything more? He knew he might as well think of going 
into the National Gallery and asking some fair-browed 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 53 

Madonna to step down from her frame, and take his hand, 
and go through the years of life with him. 

And then he would try to argue himself out of this in- 
sanity of love. He had set up an impossible ideal, he 
maintained, to himself. No woman could be so fine as 
that. Why should he bother his head about a phantom of 
his own creation? Women were women; he knew what 
they themselves said and wrote of one another; he was no 
longer a boy, imagining everything that wore a petticoat 
to be an angel. And then he would resolve to go again to 
Janie Wygram, and get to know something about the real 
Sabina, who must have her faults and weaknesses and 
vanities like other folk. Alas! that was not of much 
avail. Janie quietly remarked that people might say what 
they liked about women in general; it was none of her 
business ; but she knew what Sabina was ; nay, more, she 
did not scruple to declare to him, as she had already de- 
clared to her mother, that, were she a man, she would 
consider herself a fool if she were not in love with Sabie. 
And so there was no hope for him that way either (not 
that he was so anxious to dethrone his idol, as he tried to 
persuade himself that he was); and as Sabina haunted 
every moment of his life, and came between his every oc- 
cupation and project and fancy, he began to think that 
something must be done. He would go away from this 
hateful I^nsington, and see whether some of this lovesick- 
ness could not be left behind. He would seek out one of 
his favorite solitudes, and bury himself in that secret 
place, and devote himself to assiduous work, or assiduous 
recreation, he cared not which. 

To leave London— to miss the chance of catching a 
glimpse of her — to miss the chance even of hearing her 
name mentioned in the talking of friends— was not pleas- 
ant ; but to remain in London, suffering this useless torture, 
was intolerable. So one morning, and on a sudden 
impulse, he telegraphed over to a friend in the West of 
Ireland, asking whether a place could be found for him 
on a certain stretch of the Shannon; the answer bade him 
come forthwith, and that afternoon he packed up his 
sketching implements and fishing-rods, went down by the 
night mail to Holyhead, and was in Dublin in the morning. 

He had come either to work or to play ; there were to be 
no more foolish love-fancies. And so, as he sat in that 
railway-carriage, hour after hour, and was taken away 
across Ireland, he kept studying the ever-varying and yet 
monotonous features of the landscape, and the slowly 
changing effects of light. And lucky it was for him that 
he was a painter: anybody else would have found that 
solitary journey a somewhat dismal thing, and the me Ian- 


54 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


clioly April day not a little depressing. The leafless trees 
looked black and harsh amid the raw reds and greens of 
plowed land and fallow; and the long stretches of bog, 
with here and there a few cottages and stone walls and 
miserable inclosures, were not very cheerful under these 
cold and neutral- tinted skies. Thai is to say, the ordinary 
traveler would have found those skies neutral- tinted and 
characterless enough; but this man was a painter, and he 
could find quite sufficient technical interest in regarding 
the softly shaded bulk and retreating perspective of the 
larger masses of cloud, and in tracing here and there a 
tinge of golden-white among the pale, hopeless, and yet 
pearly and ethereal blues and grays. And during all this 
observation, and studying of forms and tones and values, ” 
he was determined that his heart should not go away 
wandering back to Kensington Square and Sabina Zembra. 

In the afternoon he reached his destination, a straggling 
little town on the banks of the Shannon, the swift-rushing 
waters of which noble river are here spanned by a long 
and many -arched bridge. He had telegraphed for rooms 
to the inn, where he was well known; and having depos- 
ited his things there, and picked out a handy little trout- 
rod, he walked down to the river, to have an hour's 
careless fishing, and a general look round. This was a pict- 
uresque neighborhood into which he had come, but the 
afternoon was not favorable; what wind there was was 
easterly, and that had drunk the color out of the hills 
around, that loomed high and lurid as mountains through 
the mist. However, there was always the magnificent 
river, with its surging, rapid masses of white- tipped waves, 
and the pleasant sound of the rushing over the wear; 
while eventually a sort of coppery-red sunset broke 
through the pall of gray. But he was anxious about 
neither painting nor fishing on this first evening; and so 
he idly walked back to the inn again, and to dinner, in the 
small sitting-room, where the faithful Nora had hot for- 
gotten to build for him a big fire of turf instead of coal. 

This Nora was an old friend of his ; and as she came and 
went during dinner, they had a little talking together. 
She was a large-limbed creature of a lass, with pretty soft 
eyes, and black hair that might have been more tidily 
kept, and hands that might have been more frequently 
washed. But she was friendly and obliging and pleasant- 
mannered, and her amiable disposition toward the young 
English artist was manifested in a hundred little ways. 
She it was who never neglected to fill his flask before he 
started in the morning; and she was the last to wish him 
good-luck as he left; and she sent him ^'ery nice things for 
lunch ; and she was the first to congratulate.him if the men 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


55 


appeared in the evening bringing a big salmon, or perhaps 
two, or perhaps three, with them ; and when he came home 
empty-handed the pretty Nora would say, almost with 
tears in her voice, “Well, it’s sorry I am, sir; what a 
shame ye didn’t get nothin’ all the day long.” “ Alanna 
machree,” he called her, and “ Mavourneen,” and “Nora 
asthore,” and a great many other things of the meaning of 
which he knew very little; but Nora took all these with a 
placid good-humor, and her friendliness was always per- 
fectly within bounds. 

“ Sure, sir,” she said to him this evening, as he was get- 
ting to the end of his dinner, “it’s manny’s the time we’ve 
been thinking you’d be bringing Mrs. Lindsay over wid ye, 
sir.” 

“ If jmu wait for that day, you’ll wait all your life, Nora, 
my darling,” he answered. 

“Ah, don’t say that, sir!” responded Nora, cheerfully. 
“Sure there’s plenty of pretty young ladies in London.” 

“ I suppose there are,” said he. 

And instantly something in his manner told the sharp- 
witted Nora that she had struck a wrong chord; and she 
quickly changed the subject. 

“ Will you have any pudding, sir?” she asked. Here she 
could not go wrong. 

“ What kind of a pudding is it, Nora?” 

“ ’Tis an apple-poy, sir.” 

“ Oh, yes, that’ll do.” 

And it may have fancifully occurred to him in his idle 
musings, as this gentle -mannered handmaiden came and 
went, that if Nora were only to brush her hair, and wash 
hfer hands, and get nicely dressed and smartened up, she 
Avould make a very presentable bride; and what if he were 
to induce her to go away to America— to the West, where 
he would buy a farm, and they would lead a healthy, 
happy, matter-of-fact existence— so that he should forget 
his sorrows, and think of that hated Kensington no more? 
But no; that would not do either. He might not find the 
forgetfulness he was in search of. Besides, her hair — each 
time she came into the room he noticed it — Avas too dread- 
fully untidy. And then, again, it Avas just possible that 
the Lass of Limerick (this was another of the names he 
gave her) might not care to go. 

By and by, Avhen Nora had removed the dinner things, 
and brought him some coffee and stirred up the peats, he 
was left quite alone, and he pulled in his chair to the blaz- 
ing fire, and lit his pipe. So far he had done well. He 
had scarcely sent one backward thought toward London 
the whole day long. But now there was this to be con- 
sidered. He had promised to paint for Sabina a replica of 


56 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


the water-color drawing she had chanced to admire, and he 
had understood from Janie that Miss Zembra was willing 
to accept the same. But replicas were more or less mechan- 
ical things ; besides, he had not the drawing here. Would it 
not be better before setting seriously to work, that he should 
do some sketch for her of some actual living scene? A first 
fresh impression was always preferable. She had shown a 
little interest in asking him about the various remote cor- 
ners that he went to; here was one. Would she care for a 
sketch of the wide waters of the Shannon, the long bridge, 
the little straggling town, the old square- towered church, 
and, overlooking all, the distant slopes and shoulders of the 
Slieve Bernagh hills? It would not be recalling him to her 
recollection; it would be redeeming a promise. And 
might he not write to Janie~now— and make the sugges- 
tion? 

It was a pretty long letter that he wrote to Janie. And 
if at first he pretended that all his concern was about that 
picture arrangement, in the end he was quite candid, and 
even glad to make Janie once more his confidante. 

“ The truth is,” he wrote, “ I came here to try to shake 
off certain influences— or rather one particular influence — 
that you are aware of, I dare say. And to you, who see 
so much of Miss Zembra, and know what she is, I am not 
ashamed to confess that it may be difiicult ; but I hope to 
succeed in the end ; and then when this glamour of fas- 
cination has been got rid of, I hope to meet her on the 
more durable basis of friendship, if she will permit of that. 
Of course a young woman, and especially a beautiful 
young woman, may naturally distrust any such proposal; 
but if ever the need should arise, she would find that it 
was no fair-weather friendship I had begged her to ac- 
cept. It would not be merely while her physical beauty 
lasted that I should be at her service at any moment if 
trouble came. To me, Sabina (I may call her this in con- 
fidence, and you will burn this letter) will always be beau- 
tiful, even when her eyes have lost that luster that at 
present is just a little too bewildering for some unhappy 
mortals. You have helped me to understand what this is ; 
and the friendship of such a splendid creature would 
mean more to me than I can well tell you. I suppose 
nothing else is possible. You say so; and you ought to 
know. 

“ At the same time I am aware that you don’t wish her 
to marry anybody ; and that, if it were a matter of advice, 
that is the advice you would give her. Now let me warn 
you, dear Miss Janie, that you have not seen very much of 
the world ; and that to give advice in such a serious mattei: 


SABLXA 2EMBRA, 


57 


to any one involves a grave responsibility. It is all very 
well just now. Sabina is young and vigorous, self-confi- 
dent in the audacity of her health and good spirits, and 
happy enough in shedding the bounty of her generous 
disposition upon all comers. But it cannot be always 
so. She cannot be always so. She might want a help- 
ing hand ; she is away from her family ; sickness might 
overtake her; she might get robbed of her good looks, 
which are an easy passport just now to everybody’s 
favor. In any case, she must ihevitably grow old. Is 
it wise to ask such a woman to face the coming years 
alone? You know better than any one how sensitive 
she is, though she pretends not to be ; how eager she is 
that people should like her; how she seems to crave for 
sympathy and affection. Well, I’m not going rave about 
her any more, for you would think it was all special plead- 
ing; but you just be careful, dear Miss Janie, not to do any 
mischief where the life-long interests of your best and 
dearest friend are concerned. If she will go that way, it is 
well. Each human being has his or her own ideal, I sup- 
pose. And anyhow, I'm going to try to banish all this 
mystification and glamour out of my head ; and when I 
come back to London, I hope to be able to understand what 
Sabina really is — and no doubt she is a great deal finer than 
any of my imaginings about lier; and you will help us to 
become good, true friends, and so make a satisfactory end 
of the whole matter. And I’m going to send your mother 
a salmon, as soon as I catch one.” 

It was a very sensible letter to be written by a man 
whose brains had got so thoroughly bewildered ; and no 
doubt at the moment he believed every word he had writ- 
ten. But as he sat there later on, staring into the fire, 
perhaps some other visions may have arisen before him — 
only, it is not necessary they should be put down here. 

Next morning he was all alert; the boatmen were wait- 
ing outside; the long Castle Connel rods had been put to- 
gether; Nora had filled his flask — just in case there might 
be occasion to drink ‘‘a tight line to your honor;” and 
presently, when he had bundled his sketching implements 
together, they were all on their way down to the boat. 
This was a very excellent recreation for a landscape-painter 
(as well he knew before) ; for when once the coble, or 
“cot,” was out in the midst of the wild-whirling waters, 
the men not only managed that, but the fishing as well;, 
trolling— “ dragging,” as they called it— with .prawn and 
“killoch” and phantom minnow, or lashing the stream 
with a forty-yard line and a big gold and red and purple 
Shannpn fly, as the occasion demanded; while he, if ho 


68 


BABINA ZKMBRA. 


chose, could sit idle, studying effects of light and color and 
form, or jotting these down in his book when he was so in- 
cliried. And then again, when the light was bad, or the 
part of the river they happened to be at uninteresting, he 
would get up and take the casting-rod and have a turn at 
the throwing ; and if the forty yards were now reduced to 
twenty-five, still that was not a bad line for an amateur to 
throw out clean. 

On this particular morning he was less interested in 
the fishing than usual ; all his concern was to find some- 
thing fine for the sketch he was to send Sabina. And how 
would that do now? The built-up bank all ablaze with 
golden gorse : above that a row of leafiess trees, against a 
sky of pale lurid blues and faint red grays ; and underneath 
the bank, and all in front of him, the rushing, boiling, surg- 
ing river, here and there straight, swift rapids, here and 
t here masses of foam-crested waves, and here and there a 
large circular eddy of black, oily-looking, smooth water, OJi 
which were refiected, in wan and spectral fashion, the 
whitewashed walls of an old, dilapidated mill. He looked 
at it again, this way and that, but it would not do. The 
east wind had withered the color out of the landscape; this 
furious river was too difficult for a mere sketch ; he wanted 
a blue sky on the water, instead of those reflections of 
gray and black. So he gave that up for the present, and 
took the rod from Johnnie Ryan, and began to belabor the 
whirling currents with five-and- twenty yards of line and 
a big “silver doctor.” 

In the afternoon he was more fortunate ; for although 
that weird haze still hung over the lurid blue hills and the 
ghostly landscape, and the sun, when the clouds slowly 
parted, showed himself a sphere of mottled, dusky gold, 
by and by, as the evening drew on, a beautiful pinky-gray 
light began to shine in the western heavens ; and the stems 
and branches and twigs of the leafiess trees grew to be of 
a rich, warm purple ; and the dark green of the grass on 
the bank, and the deep yellow of the gorse, became 
strangely intense and clear. 

“ Put me ashoro now, Johnnie,” he said to the chief boat- 
man. 

“ Sure ’tis the best bit of the lake we’re just coming to,” 
Johnnie remonstrated. 

“ Very well; you fire away, and pick up a forty- pounder. 
I’m going ashore — look alive now I” 

And perhaps he was a little anxious as he began, and 
half forgetful of his own mastery of his craft. He was so 
anxious to justify himself in Sabina’s eyes. She had not 
seen much of his work; nor had anyone, in fact. His 
Wigtonshire patrimony had relieved him from the neces* 


SAmNA ZEMBRA. 


50 


sity of laboring for the market; and his reputation, which 
was distinct and marked, prevailed chiefly among artists 
themselves, who were wont to become very enthusiastic 
indeed about Walter Lindsay’s drawings. Of course there 
were those who descried his method, and called him an 
Impressionist, and the like. And he was an Impressionist 
of a kind; but his Impressionism was of the higher order 
that refuses to deal with that which is unnecessary, not 
the Impressionism which is chiefly marked by a clever 
avoidance of difficulties. He began by being a realist of 
the severest tpye ; for years he had labored, in Switzer- 
land, in Sweden, in Holland, at patient and faithful studies 
of rocks and foliage and water and sky ; but gradually he 
had emancipated himself ; nature was no longer his master 
and tyrant; he chose for himself; he left undone what he 
did not think worth doing, but what he did do was done 
with the reverence borne of knowledge. Nature was his 
friend and companion, if no longer his master; and hitherto 
he had been well content to wander away by himself into 
any kind of a solitude, working sometimes, idling some- 
times, but always more or less unconsciously studying. 
And if lie Was not scrupulous about detail, where he did put 
in detail it was right; he was none the worse a painter that 
he was also a skilled geologist, and that his herbarium was 
of his own collection, and bore record of many a toilsome 
pilgrimage. 

And now he began to pick up his courage again, for the 
effect proved lasting, and he was getting on. The beauti- 
ful ethereal rose-grays still dwelt in the higher heavens ; 
the leafless trees grew even warmer in their purple, and 
the gorse-bushes burned gold in the pallid shadow of the 
bank. He glanced at Johnnie Ryan from time to time, for 
Johnnie was fighting a salmon further down the stream, 
and he wanted to see the end of that struggle. And then 
he wondered whether Sabina would care for this bit of a 
sketch. It was not of the chromo-lithographic kind; it 
was not striking: moreover, a good deal of compromise 
was necessary even with what was before him. But he 
thought he could make something out of it ultimately— a 
tender kind of a thing; not strong in color, perhaps: 
rather ethereal and delicate, but if possible luminous and 
fine. He hoped Sabina would like it. Would she under- 
stand the reticence of it? Would she understand what had 
made him hold his hand somewhat? Of course, he could 
do the other thing if he chose. But it was something in 
the nature of a pearl that he wished to give to Sabina. 

He carried out the sketch as far as was possible in the 
circumstances, until the rose-hue in the sky began to fade 
into dusk; and then he bundled up his things, fairly well 


60 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


content. And Johnnie Ryan and his companion had got 
the salmon — a twenty-two pounder, and they were also 
well content. He let the two men go on before him ; and 
then, after sitting there awhile, considering what he could 
do further with the sketch, and perhaps thinking of one or 
two other things, he rose and walked slowly home by the 
river-bank, underneath a twilight made transparent by a 
single star. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

THE NEW FRIENDSHIP. 

Op a sudden all this was changed ; for the next morning 
the wind was blowing freshly from the west, and the 
world was ablaze with color — rich and glowing and keen; 
and from that moment forward every day as it went by 
was filled to overflowing with brisk work, and recreation 
quite as brisk. When he had done a sufficient quantity of 
the former, he fell upon the* latter with might and main, 
and ffogged those surging rapids* of the Sh^annon with a 
persistency and skill that won even the approval of Johnnie 
Ryan. And the evenings? — well, the evenings were given 
over now to the glorification of friendship. That was to 
be the future happiness. He would go back to London 
cured of the cruel madness of love, and ask that beautiful, 
high-gifted creature to give him of her companionship as 
far as that might be possible. He would prove the faith 
that was in him, too. Others might try to woo and win 
her; he would be her friend, no matter what befell. He 
had heard of such things ; and the situation might become 
fine in its way. And so he worked hard, and fished hard, 
and bade himself be of good cheer; he had banished that 
morbid lovesickness by main force ; Sabina was to be his 
friend. 

There came a large envelope containing a couple of 
cards for the private view of the Royal Academy. A week 
or two previous he had received the honor of an invitation 
to be present at the banquet ; this was an additional com- 
pliment, and highly pleased was he with both. But, of 
course, his first thought was of Sabina; and as he guessed 
that old Mr. Wygram would as usual have received a 
similar couple of tickets (this was a friendly act on the part 
of the Academy toward one who was not now as prosperous 
as once he had been), and as he knew that Mrs. Wygram 
and Janie invariably made use of these, he at once tele- 
graphed to Miss Janie that he had a card for Miss Zembra, 
if she cared to go, and also begging her to fix the engage 
mcnt. That meant, naturally, that he should escort the 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 61 

three ladies to Burlington House and show them round the 
rooms. But it was all in the way of friendship. 

Next morning he said, casually, to the Lass of Limerick: 

“ Nora, what do you think, now, would be a nice present 
for a young lady?” 

‘‘ Sure a sweetheart mightn’t be amiss, sir,” said Nora, 
demurely, as she was putting the eggs on the table. 

“ Ah, you’re too facetious, Nora, alanna, for one of your 
tender years. How about a salmon, now? What if I were 
to send the young lady a salmon?” 

“ She’d be mighty plazed, sir, I suppose,” said Nora, as 
she was heaping some more turf on the fire. 

” But the fish ought to be of my own catching— don’t you 
think so?” 

“And maybe it’s herself you’d rather be afther, sir, beg- 
ging your pardon,” said Nora, darting a glance at him 
from the door. 

“ Nora,” said he, gravely, “ is that the fashion they have 
of talking in Limerick?” 

‘‘It’s the fashion they talk all over the wurruld, sir, 
when a young gentleman spakes about a young lady in 
that way— and that’s the truth, sir,” said Nora, as she 
smiled maliciously and disappeared into the passage. 

He was not to be deterred by the sarcasm of the Pride 
of Kildare (another of her names, by the way). This was 
a Jjappy inspiration, that he should send a salmon to Sa- 
bina. He did not stay to ask himself what she could do 
with it. Why, it wa6 the right and privilege of every 
sportsman to make a present of game — salmon or venison 
or grouse, or whatever it might be — to whomsoever he 
chose, even to a stranger. Sabina would have the compli- 
ment; the Wygrams would have the fish. And surely this 
noble river, that he had made friends with, that he had 
come to know so well, that he had formed so great an affec- 
tion for, would yield him a worthy prize? Anyhow, his 
colors and block and camp-stool and sketching umbrella 
were all left unheeded in a corner; and he was busy with 
minnows and prawns and ‘‘Jock Scotts ” and ‘‘ Blue Doc- 
tors;” and forthwith he was on his way down to the coble 
with Johnnie Ryan and his mate. 

And what a day this was for idleness, whether afloat or 
ashore! The spring seemed to have come upon them with 
a bound. The lilac and silver-white April skies were filled 
with blowing clouds; and now there were dazzling floods 
of light, and again the gloom of a passing shower; the yel 
low gorse burned hot in the sun; there were blush-tinted 
anemones in the leafless woods, and primroses every- 
where, and shy violets; the swallows were skimming and 
dipping and twittering. A robin sung loud an4 clear froii; 


62 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


the topmost twig of a hawthorn-bush. And then the 
splendid river, changing with every mood of the sky: at 
times sullen and dark under the heavy rain-clouds, and 
then ogain, when these had passed, and the heavens were 
bountifully flooding the world with light, this great m^s 
of water became a mighty highway of flashing, vivid, in- 
tense cobalt blue, lying between these soft green meadows 
and that high bank, crowned with its golden furze. 

“ We ought to get^ fish to-day, Johnnie,” he said, as he 
was flogging away" at the water. 

“ Bedad, and it’s more than one we’ll have before going 
home this night, your honor,” was Johnnie’s confident 
answer. 

Moreover, the prophecy came true, for that 'evening, as 
they went home through the dusk, the men had three 
very nice fish to carry, one of them weighing twenty eight 
pounds; and it was the twenty-eight-pouiider, of course, 
that was to go to Kensington Square. 

A twenty- eight-pound salmon; a ticket for the private 
view of the Academy; a water-color drawing of a rose- 
gray evening over the beautiful river ; these were the gifts 
he now had for Sabina; but they were not to show her 
that he was continually thinking of her ; they were not to 
beg for her favor in any way; they were merely to cement 
the new friendship. All the same, he began to wonder 
why Janie had not written. He watched the posts. He 
tormented himself with doubts. Perhaps he had been too 
bold. Perhaps Sabina was ill. To think of her — while 
here he was in this blowing April weather, with the spring 
flowers carpeting the wood, and the west winds redolent 
of the full -blossomed gorse, and the great river shining 
back the deep blue of the young year’s skies— to think of 
her as perchance in a dull room in that gray Kensington 
Square, lying pale and wan, it might be, with white fin- 
gers limp on the coverlet ! Why was he not in London, 
that he might go straight to Janie and ask? If Sabina 
were ill, however slightly, small messages from the out- 
side world might vary the monotony of the sick-room— 
flowers and fruit and books, and an occasional word of 
remembrance and sympathy— these could do no harm. 
Then again he would argue himself out of this fear. Sabina 
was very busy, Janie, too, had many things to look after. 
Perhaps she was waiting to see whether ^bina could 
definitely fix about the private view. Nevertheless, he 
came down-stairs early in the morning, lest there should 
be an envelope waiting for him on the breakfast table. 
And sometimes he would leave the fishing just as the 
evening looked most promising-, and wander back to the 
inn, hoping for an answer from Kensington Square. But 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


6S 

all this anxiety, and needless alarm, and torturing specu- 
lation had nothing to do with love or lovesickness ; it was 
but part of the newly established friendship. 

Nora was a good-hearted lass, and shrewd withal; and 
she had got to suspect that Mr. Lindsay was troubling 
himself about the non-arrival of a letter; so that one day 
when the afternoon post brought a little batch of cor- 
respondence for him, she straightway sought out a small, 
shock headed boy, and sent him down with the parcel to 
the boat. The letter from Janie had come at last, and 
eagerly enough it was opened. She apologized for not 
having answ^ered sooner, but said she had been extremely 
busy. The young gentleman who had met with the ac- 
cident had left Lancaster Gate ; following that, Sabina had 
many arrears of her own particular work to attack, and 
Janie had been helping her. And as he read on, remorse 
of conscience struck him. It appeared that his letter had 
very much distressed this tender soul. Any charge, how- 
ever slight or remote, against her beloved Sabie was a 
cause of deep concern to her, and she had got it into her 
head that Mr. Lindsay was rather hinting that Sabina was 
impervious to the claims of friendship; and she considered 
this to be most especially ungrateful on his part. 

“Don’t think me impertinent, dear Mr. Lindsay,” she 
wrote, “but really I cannot help asking Avhat you would 
like more. You write as if you and Sabie were strangers; 
that you Avere coming back to beg for a little friendship 
from her ; and that is all you have to say in return for the 
way she treated you that night at your house! Why, she 
jusl devoted herself to you the whole evening, and had 
scarcely a word or a look for any one else — so much so 
that it was remarked — and was as kind to you as an un- 
married girl could be. I think you want a little too much, 
if 1 must speak my mind. If you think that Sabie is not 
already your friend, I can only say that you are very much 
mistaken; and friendship with Sabie means something. 
And she is very much interested in your work, as I know ; 
and when I told her where you were, among such beautiful 
things— well, I confess I was mean enough to say it was 
lucky for some folk that they could go away and live 
cunong green fields and spring flowers and woods, and all 
that, for we were walking through a horrid little lane over 
in Battersea— she was quite sharp with me, and said it was 
a very good thing some people could go away and bring us 
back reports how beautiful the world was, and give us pict- 
ures of it that we could look at again and again with de- 
light, in the middle of all our troubles and worry. 

“Yes; and she met the president of the Academy at 


64 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


somebody’s house the other evening, and he was saying 
very nice things about you, and she came home and re- 
peated every one of them, and was very much pleased 
about it, and said how fine a thing it must be for one in 
your position to have such a career before him, and to have 
won such esteem already from your own brothers in art. 
But that isn’ t friendship— oh no ! That is the carelessness of 
a stranger. However, I am not going to scold any more, 
for I don’t know that there 'was not some make-believe in 
your letter. Only it does seem hard on Sabie. I suppose 
you don’t know how kind she was to you that evening? Or 
how much attention do you expect, if I may speak frankly? 
I wondered that none of the other gentlemen were jealous 
of the way she devoted herself to you, both during supper 
and in the studio; but I suppose they find girls like Miss 
Sadleir and Tottie Morrison more attractive. Well, they’re 
welcome, so long as they leave me my Sabie. She told me 
you had offered her that beautiful old wine-cup, and she 
thought it was very kind of you ; but of course it would be 
no use to her. Besides, you could not expect her to accept 
so valuable a gift. Mother, who has very sharp eyes, says 
that something else happened just about that time. Do 
you know? Of course 1 would not ask Sabie for worlds. 
But did it happen? That was not friendship, anyway. 
And yet you seem to think that Sabie is not kind to you. ’ ’ 

He took her scolding manfully, and only wished for 
more. For it was very grateful to him to have it so hotly 
argued and proved, by one who ought to know, that Sabina 
held him in some little regard ; and the references to that 
evening in the studio recalled an abundance of happiness, 
and he liked to be told that Sabina had shown him so much 
favor. He read the scolding over and over again, and did 
not care whether he merited it or not ; it was all about 
Sabina, and that was sufficient. But that chance remark 
about the lane in Battersea gave him a twinge of conscience. 
He could see the two girls trudging through those squalid 
thoroughfares, on their errands of kindness and help, the 
air fetid around them, the skies hidden away from them. 
While as for him, look at his surroundings at this moment ! 
The afternoon happened to be strangely still and peaceful 
— it was like an evening in summer. On ihe higher 
meadows lay a soft and mellow radiance, streaming over 
from the west; but down here the wide stream was in 
shadow; and odd enough was the contrast between the 
turmoil of the water— with its sharp and sudden gleams of 
blue-black and silver-gray and that peaceful golden 
landscape, and the pale, cloudless, over-arching sky. Here 
,and there a bird was singing; and ever there was the 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


05 


lulling rush of the river, a murmur filling the still evening 
air. And then he thought of Battersea; and of Sabina; 
and of her generous defense of him ; and all he could say 
for himself was this— that if any of his transcripts of these 
peaceful and beautiful scenes on the Shannon had a trace 
of interest in her eyes, or could make a dull corner of the 
house in Kensington Square one whit the brighter, she 
was welcome to her choice of them, or to all of them put 
together. 

There was further good news for him in the postscript. 

“About the private view of the Academy,” Miss 
Wygram wrote, “ Sabie says I am to thank you very 
much for remembering her, and she will be glad to go 
Avith us, if nothing unusual should happen.” 

Now, here Avas a notable thing; for though he was 
neither academician nor associate, he AA^ould be in a certain 
sense Sabina’s host on this occasion, and responsible for 
her being pleased and entertained. And what could lie do? 
Was there no special favor he could obtain for her? Num- 
bers of both academicians and associates were among his 
most intimate friends : perhaps they could procure for him 
the use of some small room someAvhere, so that Miss 
Zembra and the little party he might make up could haA^e 
lunch in peace and quiet, instead of among the heated 
crowd? Failing that (and it did not sound possible, some- 
how), by going early surely he could secure a table in the 
refreshment-room, up at the Avindow end? And who could 
prove himself a better guide to her as she Avent round the 
Galleries? 

For each year he was in the habit of sending in a little 
Avater-color, not to ask for public favor at all, but merely 
to gain for him a ticket for the Varnishing Day; and he 
would devote the Avhole of that day to a rapid suiwey of 
the Exhibition, so that, Avhen Sabina started on her round 
of the rooms, he could take her AAuthout trouble and explo- 
ration to everything Avorth seeing. On Private VieAv Day, 
as every one knows, the Avomen-folks rather let themseh'es 
loose in the Avay of conspicuous attire. And if Sabina 
should come among them in her simple gOAvn of plain 
broAvn homespun, Avith its black buttons and frilled tight 
cuffs ! He hoped she would. It was the dress he used to 
look out for in Kensington High Street; it Avas the dress 
that used to make his heart leap— before the era of friend- 
ship had opened. And better than any extravagance of 
fashion it seemed to suit the tall and lithe and graceful 
form. 

But for the consideration of these and other high-stirring 
projects and fancies he wanted more freedom and the ex- 


m SASmA ZEMBRA. 

citement of motion; this coble amid the hurrying waters 
of the Shannon was all too narrow and confined ; so he 
surrendered his rod to Johnnie Kyan, got put ashore, and 
presently was walking rapidly along the unfrequented 
highway in the direction of Lough Derg. And what, he 
was asking himself, ought he to strive for, in order to 
prove himself worthy of this rare companionship that was 
to be his: how was he to win further favor in her eyes? 
Women, he understood, rather liked the society of famous 
men— of men who had “done something” and who were 
known to the world. Well, now, he had never striven for 
fame at all. 

. He had striven to win the appreciation of his brother- 
artists, and he had succeeded in a most enviable degree ; 
but chiefly, it may be said, he worked for absolute love of 
the work itself. His Wigtonshire property rendered him ^ 
independent of the dealers, and of any caprice of public 
fashion; he did his work in his own way; he could afford 
to linger over it, and produce his best ; and the ultimate 
fate of it, or the effect it would have on his reputation, did 
not bother him much. But if women liked the society of 
famous men? Surely there was nothing unworthy in seek- 
ing the public approval ; in doing something definite ; in 
making his work perhaps a little more consecutive? He 
was walking near to the Shannon on this placid and golden 
evening. And it suddenly occurred to him that a series of 
drawings illustrative of the mighty river from its source 
away in the north down to its disappearance in the sea 
might show a certain coherence, and appeal to the public 
with more effect than any mere number of disconnected 
water-colors. It was a bold project, for the Shannon, dur- 
ing its course of two hundred miles flows through almost 
every kind of country. He would have to face mountain 
scenery and lake scenery and gentle pastoral scenery ; and 
he would have to deal with the varied character of the 
river itself, now widening out into such inland seas as 
Lough Eee and Lough Derg, again gliding swiftly by peace- ' 
ful meadows, or wildly racing and chasing over the rocky j 
barriers of Castle Connell. And then look at the result of < 
these two or three years’ labor: an exhibition room in Pic- 
cadilly or King Street— a Private View Day all to himself \ 
—Sabina making her appearance, along with the Wygrams, , 
about four in the afternoon— Sabina, as ever, gracious, and ; 
benignant, and smiling-eyed. 

This newly formed friendship seemed to demand a good 
deal of reverie ; and it is to be observed that not only did 
the figure of Sabina loom large and constant in these 
visions of the future, but also that the society and com- j 
panionship he was arranging for her was very curiously 1 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


07 


limited. In fact, there did not appear to be any room for 
a third or a fourth person. The Wygrams, of course, did 
not count; they might be regarded merely as attendants 
upon Sabina ; while as for any one else, there was no one else. 
Sabina and he were to be friends ; the outer world— espe- 
cially the male creatures of the outer world — might sur- 
round that distinctly limited circle if they chose — at a little 
distance. Now, friendship is not ordinarily so exclusive. 
But perhaps this was a new kind. 

“I’m afraid I’m very late for dinner, Nora, acushla,” 
said he, as he got back to the inn an hour and a half after 
the proper time. 

“Oh, well, sir,” said Nora, good-naturedly, “we expect 
the gentlemen to come in at anny time. If it’s bad luck 
they’re having with the fishing, they come home, and if 
it’s good luck they stay out. I sent y ou down your letters, 
sir.” 

“Thank j'ou kindly,” said he. 

“ I hope there was good news in them, sir,” said Nora, 
as she was giving the last touch to the turf fire. 

“ Indeed there was,” he rejoined. 

“Well, it’s glad I am of that, sir,” said Nora, who had 
been forming her little guesses, “for sometimes a letter 
has a dale to say.” 

“ I’m going back to England on Monday.” 

“Are ye, now, sir? Well, that’s a pity, to be sure! — 
and Tim O’Connor declaring the weather was going to be 
splendid for the fishing.” 

“Yes, I must be off; but some day or another I’ll be 
coming back. No fear about that; you’re too good to me 
over here.” 

“ And the next time you come, sir,” said Nora, in her 
demure way, as she was leaving the room, “sure I hope 
ye’ll not be coming alone.” 

There was no particular need that he should go back on 
Monday ; but he knew that the art world of London was 
now entering upon its annual period of excitement; the 
studios would all be a-murmuring ; and the air surcharged 
with stories of rejections, and rage at the hanging, and 
wonder at the good-luck of some folks in selling their pict- 
ures. Of course, he was interested in such things ; and it 
was natural he should return to London at such a time. 
As for any other reason, or subtle hope, or fascination? 
—no, he answered himself, there was none. He was 
quite heart-whole now. Those weeks of hard work and 
liard exeTcise and wholesome air on the shores of the 
Shannon had cured him of that hateful and febrile sadness 
that had made his life in London unendurable. He was 
going back to assiduous and happy labors in his studio; 


68 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


and if by chance he were to meet Sabina in the street— 
down by Kensington Square, it might be, or Hyde Park 
Gate, or Cromwell Gardens — he would be able to take her 
hand without a tremor, and she should find nothing but 
friendship— placid and assured and abiding— in his eyes. 


CHAPTER IX. 

BY THE SEA. 

But in the meantime Mrs. Wygram had fallen ill in a 
vague kind of way ; lassitude, loss of appetite, and melan- 
choly were the chief symptoms; and Sabina, taking the 
matter in hand in her rapid and practical fashion, had no 
difficulty in making a diagnosis of the case. The ailment 
she declared to be Kensington Square, and the obvious 
cure — Brighton. 

“Janie,” she said, “I will run down with your mother 
and see her put comfortably in a lodging, and stay with her 
as long as I can. Then you will look after my people from 
time to time; and if I’m wanted, it’s merely a sixpenny 
telegram and I’m in London in an hour and a quarter. 
Even if I have to come up now and again, your mother 
won’t feel very lonely when she knows I am coming back 
in the evening.” 

“But why to Brighton, Sabie?” said Jennie, with a sud- 
den and jealous alarm. 

“ I’ll tell you the reason— because it is so handy,” was 
the answer. 

“ Is Mr. Foster there?” 

Sabina’s face brightened. 

“Yes. Poor fellow, it will be quite a pleasure to see 
him and try to cheer him up a bit. He is so good-natured, 
you know, 'Janie. When one looks back on that unhappy 
.accident, it is Avith a good deal of remoi-se, and it isn’t 
j pleasant; but the moment you see him he tries to make 
light of it, and to put you at your ease, and then you are 
^ glad that he takes it so courageously. And just think Avhat 
it must be to one who has led so active and stirring a life — 
to be chained down like that. Why, it’s dreadful to think 
of! People who are walking about, and going where they 
like, can’t even imagine what that is. Then the Avant of 
society— the dull evenings— the Avet days Avhen he is alone 
and in-doors— do you Avonder that I should be sorry for 
him, and feel sometimes a little miserable about it all?” 

“For my part,” said Janie, somewhat coldly, “ I don’t 
see Avhy you should feel miserable about it in any Avay 
whatever; an accident may happen to any one. And I 
can’t understand a bit the interest you take in him. Why, 
Sabie, he is the last man in the Avorld I should have ex- 


SABINA ZE3IBRA. 


69 


pected you to make friends with; a man who seems to have 
no aim in life but to amuse himself. ’ ’ 

“ But you know, Janie, there are many people who don’t 
even succeed in doing that,” said Sabina, in her gentle 
way. These two were not in the habit of quarreling. 

The end of it was that Sabina took Mrs. Wygram down 
to Brighton, and got rooms for them both in a house in 
Regency Square. 

“I shall be such a dull companion for you, Sabie,” the 
old lady said. ” Pon’t you know any young people here?” 

‘‘I don’t know a soul in the place,” Sabina answered, 
“except Mr. Foster, and he is another invalid. Fancy 
what a business I shall have in talking you both into some- 
thing like light-heartedness. But how am I to see him? I 
want to see him ; and I know where he is living — in the 
crescent where the Grant Hotel is. But I suppose we could 
hardly call on him, could we, or send him a message that 
we are here?” 

“He is rather a stranger, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Wygram, 
doubtfully. 

“A stranger? Not a bit of it ! You don’t keep talking to 
any one day after day without getting to understand him 
pretty well ; and J seem to have known Mr. Foster all my 
life; I have heard all about his schooldays, and his home, 
and his people, and his pursuits. I assure you, there is an 
amount of frank egotism about him that is quite charming; 
and you know you should always encourage people to talk 
about themselves — it’s the subject that interests them 
most.” 

“You have such wonderful patience, Sabie, with old 
people and with young,” said Mrs. Wygram, A^ho had 
some acquaintance with the girl. 

“Oh, but that is just the way I take of amusing my- 
self,” said Sabina, lightly, “just as other people take to 
whist, or billiards, or horse-racing. Now tell me what is 
to be done. If you knew Mr. Foster you could write and 
ask him to call— if the Bath-chair can be got into the house. 
But you don’t know him. Well, suppose I were to send 
him a note like this: ‘Young man, I’m old enough to be 
your mother; so don’t be offended if I ask you to come 
along and have a cup of tea with Mrs. Wygram and my- 
self.’ ” 

“You old enough to be his mother, indeed!” Mrs. Wy- 
gram cried. “How old is he, then?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sabina said, carelessly. “But tell 
me what we should do now. Or shall we go out for a lit- 
tle walk first, and decide so weighty a matter afterward?” 

And as it turned out, the matter was decided for them, 
and that forthwith and in the simplest way. When they 


70 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


went out they naturally strolled down toward the pier; 
for the band was playing, and the wide promenade seemed 
a cheerful kind of place ; and about the very first person 
they saw there was Mr. Foster himself, whose chair was 
being slowly pulled along. His quick, clear eyes smiled a 
recognition at once; Sabina, in the frankest and fi-iendliest 
way, went up and shook hands with him, and introduced 
him to Mrs. Wygram; and there they remained, chatting, 
asking questions, and apparently very well pleased to have 
met once more. 

But Mrs. Wygram was not so well ’ pleased. She had 
heard a good deal about Mr. Foster from Janie; and per- 
haps she had unconsciously imbibed a little of the jealousy 
with which Janie regarded the young gentleman. Any- 
how, she was distinctly of opinion — as she remained a 
trifling space apart, and only half listened to their conver- 
sation— that the manner of Mr. Foster toward Sabina was 
not right. It was a great deal too easy and familiar. Her 
beautiful Sabie (she considered) ought to be regarded with 
a respectful adoration— especially by young men; Avhereas 
. this person in the Bath-chair looked at Sabina, and spoke 
to her, just as if she might have been anybody. In truth, 
Sabina appeared to be a good deal moi-e pleased by this 
chance meeting than he was, she was interested, animated, 
smiling, and friendly; while he glanced at her in a critical 
kind of way, and seemed in nowisesufficiently grateful for 
her condescension. 

“ Well, did you do as I told you?'’ he said, “Did you ‘ go 
nap ’ on Cherry Blossom for the Grand National?” 

“ No, I did not,” she answered. “ But I hope you won.” 

“ Oh, I don’t call it winning; I call it getting back a little 
of my stolen property. And I did pretty well on the City 
and Subimban, too,” he added, cheerfully. 

, “ But,” ■ she said, “ perhaps I ought not to congratulate 
you on winning ; for, of course, that means that some one 
must have lost. ’ ’ 

“Oh, you needn’t be sorry Avhen the ‘bookies’ get 
caught ; they make a good enough thing of it in the end — 
be sure of that.” 

“But some one must lose ’’—said this patient disciple— 
and strange it was to Mrs. Wygram to hear Sabie talk 
about horse- racing. 

“ Why, yes. The great bulk of the public lose, and must 
lose; and why shouldn’t they lose? They bet for fun, 
whether they know anything about the horses or not. 
Well, if you want your amusement, you’ve got to pay for 
it; and if your amusement is backing horses, you’ve got 
to pay for that too. You see, it isn’t every one who can 
keep a yacht or a pack of hounds; but every one can 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


71 


back a horse-thanks to the noble swells Avho provide 
the animals. I consider it very disinterested on their part ; 
it isn’t many of them who have made money over it. I 
know a good number of gallant sportsmen who have a 
fine display of gold cups on their dining-room sideboards, 
but who don’t quite like to be asked how much they 
cost.” 

“But still, to encourage general gambling in that 

way ” Sabina was going to protest, but he interrupted 

her with a laugh. 

“ Oh, yes, I know. Miss Zembra. It’s very wicked and 
bad, and the grocer’s apprentice who filches from his 
master’s till in order to back a favorite will no doubt come 
to the gallows; and it’s very sad that people will go on 
risking their money on games of chance ; but then, such is 
life.” 

“ We might try to make life a little better than we find 
it,” she said, tentatively. Somehow he had not the air of 
one who would listen to words of wisdom. 

He looked at her, and said gravely : 

“ I’m going to tell you something. Don’t you forget it. 
If you can get anybody to give you • ten to one against 
Macedon for the Two Thousand, just you take it, and you’ll 
remember me with tears of gratitude.” 

“You are incorrigible,” she said; but she said it with a 
smile; for there was far more of good-humor than of argu- 
ment in her composition, and she was pleased to find him 
so confident and self-reliant, and in such good spirits. 

They went out to the further end of the pier, which he 
said was his favorite retreat; for there, while he could 
command an uninterrupted view of the coast line all the 
way from Worthing Point out to the successive chalk 
headlands of Seaford and the Seven Sisters, the music near 
at hand was softened to the ear by the intervention of the 
glass screen. He could either listen to the band, or read 
the morning newspaper and its guesses about the forth- 
coming race-meetings, or ov’'erlook the small boats rowing 
below, or watch here and there a big steamer leaving an 
almost stationary trail of smoke along the far horizon. 
And this particular morning, as it happened, was exceed- 
ingly bright and cheerful, a light west wind blowing, the 
clear, green water glancing in a myriad of diamonds of 
sunlight along each shimmering ripple; here and there 
soft purple patches telling of the shadow of a cloud ; over- 
head a quite summer-like sky. Then there was much live 
liness abroad; the last -delayed of the fishing-smacks com- 
ing in from the south-east ; the heavy-booted crews making 
their way home to bed ; the salesmen and packers getting 
off the Doxes and barrels of mackerel and conger to thq 


72 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


London market ; holiday folks down on the shingle ; chih 
dren paddling where tlie sand showed at low tide; the 
boatmen and photographers and newsboys busy— a traffic 
brisker than usual for that time of the year visible in the 
King’s Eoad. 

“ Oh, yes,” he continued, as Sabina stood by the side of 
the Bath-chair, or leaned over the rails to watch the ma- 
neuvering of a small sailing-boat below, ” this is an excel- 
lent place; there is always something going on, something 
to look at. I know all the girls — I mean by head -mark. 
It’s quite nice to see the young things trying to make be- 
lieve that it is summer already with their pretty bonnets 
and dresses. And you. Miss Zembra,” he added, with no 
embarrassment at all, “aren’t you going to take advantage 
of the seaside? You know people allow themselves a little 
liberty when they come here— in the way of costume, I 
mean. Pray, don’t think me rude, but I should fancy, 
now, that a sailor’s hat — a straw hat, you know, with a 
band of red silk, or something of that kind — would be- 
come you very well, and be a little brighter for the sea- 
side. Don’t you?” 

The suggestion was, no doubt, made in simple friendli- 
ness, but Mrs. Wygram did not like it. 

‘ ‘ If you would care to see the prettiest dress Miss Zem- 
bra ever wore — to my thinking— I can show it to you.” 

She took from her pocket an envelope, and from the en- 
velope a photograph. It was a photograph of Sabina in 
her hospital costume — a plain striped gown, a white cap 
and apron — the apron furnished with shoulder-straps, her 
nurse’s implements slung by a silver chain from her girdle, 
a silver brooch— an anchor— at her neck. He glanced at 
the photograph, and handed it back with a laugh. 

‘ ‘ I did not think they would have allowed you to wear 
any ornament,” he said, still addressing Sabina, “but I 
see you w^ore the same brooch you are wearing now.” 

“ And you would not easily get Miss Zembra to part with 
that brooch,” said the little old lady proudly. “It was 
given her by some of the boys on board the Chichester; 
they subscribed among themselves, and that was what 
they sent her. At least,” continued Mrs. Wygram (for 
she was determined that Mr. Foster should know there 
were other people who could appreciate Sabina, if he 
seemed so careless and indifferent)— “ at least that was 
the story, and perhaps it is partly true. But I have my 
suspicions. I know that the only time I ever went down 
to see the Chichester there was a young officer there who 
went round the, ship with us, and I noticed that he was 
particularly attentive to a young lady— I wouldn’t men- 
tion names for the world ! And when he spoke of this siffi- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


73 


scription, I guessed who would help in that. Boys in 
training-ships don’t have many pence, I should think.' Oh, 
yes, and the letter he sent! I shouldn’t have expected lads 
like that to use such beautiful English ” 

“Now, Mrs. Wygram, don’t you say anything against 
my boys,” Sabina said; but she had turned awaj’^ partly — ■ 
perhaps to get a better view of that little sailing-boat. 

They chatted and looked around them until lunch time, 
and then the3" made for home, the two ladies accompany- 
ing the Bath-chair as far as the turnstile of the pier. 

“Good-bj^e,” he said, and raised his hat slightly. 

But Sabina hesitated for a moment. 

“ Shall you be out again in the afternoon?” she asked. 

“Well, no,” he answered; “I was thinking of looking 
in at the tennis-court.” 

“What, on a day like this?” she exclaimed. “Surely 
that is unwise on the part of an invalid.” 

“ Oh, but I don’t look on myself as an invalid at all,” ho 
said. “lam an expectant — a tied-waiter— a waiter, 

3’^ousee! An excellent joke ! AVell, good-morning!” 

“ If jmu will come along at five o’clock, we will give you 
a cup of tea,” she said. 

“ Thanks, awfully— but a Bath-chair is such a nuisance 
in a room ” 

“Oh, don’t say that,” she interposed, with a touch of 
appeal in her tone. 

“Well, I will, if I may; what is your number in the 
square?” and then, when he had got that information, they 
went their several ways. 

During lunch Sabina talked of nothing but Mr. Foster, 
and of his wonderful courage and equanimity under this 
heavy trial. 

“ You don’t know how grateful I am to him,” she said, 
“ when I see him so light-hearted. If he were to fret and 
pine over it, as many another man would, just think how 
miserable I should feel. ’ ’ 

“ So you’ve said a hundred times, Sabie,” Mrs. Wygram 
answered, patiently, “and so 3'Ou’ve said to Janie; but if 
3mu were to talk from now to Doomsday, you wouldn’t 
convince me that you ought to liold yourself responsible 
for that accident.” 

“ Why was I such a fool as to call out, then?” was the 
immediate rejoinder. “I don't believe he would have 
harmed the dog at all. And I am quite certain he wouldn’t 
have gone near the heap of gravel.” 

Mrs. Wygram did not choose to argue; but somehow she 
was not well disposed to Mr. Foster. 

“ You may be as grateful as 3^011 please, ” she said to Sa- 
bina; “ I should have liked to hear of his being a little 


74 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

grateful on his side for all the kindness and attention he 
received.” 

“Ah, don’t be so hard on the poor fellow, dear Mrs. 
Wygram,” said Sabina. ” How would you like it if you 
were shut up in a Bath-chair like that?” 

” How should I like it?” Mrs. Wygram retorted, with a 
trifle of indignation in her voice. “ Well, I know this: if 
I were in a Bath- chair, and if I were a man, and a young 
lady came of her own accord to pay me a good deal of at- 
tention, and to be very friendly and courteous and oblig- 
ing, I think I should do or say something to show that I 
recognized how kind she was trying to be. I should not 
show myself an indifferent boor. Why, a man ” 

‘‘Now, now, dear Mrs. Wygram, please to stop,” said 
Sabina; but she was not very angry. “You don’t know 
what you’re saying. And besides, that is why I like Mr. 
Foster; he is honest, and does not pretend to be more in- 
terested in you than he really feels.” 

After lunch Mrs. Wygram was ordered by her imperious 
nurse to go away and lie down for awhile; and then, about 
half-past three, feabina came for her. 

“The people are coming out,” she said. “Shall we go 
for a little stroll? I Avant to see the fashions. ” 

And then she said : 

“ Really, the clear light here is dreadful for showing you 
how shabby your clothes are. Did you ever see anything 
so disgraceful as this bonnet of mine?” 

She was holding it up to the window. Then she said : 

“Yes, we will go along to the shops; and you know we 
ought to join in with the others and make believe that 
summer is come already; and I am going to get you a new 
bonnet— no, no, now, jmu needn’t 'protest, for I always 
have my own way in the end— yes. I am going to get you 
a bonnet of a lighter color, with a little frivolity in it, for 
of course when we are at the seaside we must follow the 
seaside fashions.” 

And then again she said: 

“ I wonder, now, if I am too old and grave a person to 
wear a sailor’s hat?” 

“You too old, Sabie? Oh, yes, indeed! You look so 
old!” Avas Mi-f . Wygram’s answer. 

But Avhen they had got outside and Avere going along the 
King’s Road, a sudden thought occurred to Sabina’s com- 
panion. 

“Sabie,” she said, “Avhat put the notion of getting a 
sailor's hat into your head? Was it Mr. Foster’s suffjres- 
tion?” 

“And supposing it Avas?” the tall, bland-featured girl 

answered, in her good-natured Avay.. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


75 


“But do you know what you are doing?” Mrs. Wjg- 
ram said, angrily. “It is not the custom for young gen- 
tlemen to advise young ladies as to what they should 
wear.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! — a chance hint of that kind?— I should 
have taken it from anybody. And besides, ” Sabina added, 
“ what do you mean by young ladies and young gentlemen? 
I tell you I am old enough to be his mother.” 

“Oh yes, ver}- old!” Mrs. Wygram replied, with a fine 
irony.' “ And very plain, too. Remarkably plain. I sup- 
pose, you didn’t notice how the people were looking at you 
out at the end of the pier? I did, if you didn’t; and tome 
it didn’t seem the best of manners. And you’ll put a band 
of red silk round the hat, as he directed you?” 

“No, I don’t think I will do that,” Sabina answered. 
“I will get a band of cream-colored satin, I think; or of 
the color of this dress, if I can,” 

“And you will be wearing that hat when he comes along 
this afternoon?” 

“ Well, no; for I don’t wear a hat in-doors.” 

“ But it will be lying about?” 

“It may. But, dear Mrs. Wygram, what do you mean? 
A trifle of. this kind! And Janie isn’t here; you know it 
is Janie who generally chooses my things for me.” 

That evening Mrs. Wygram had to write to her daugh- 
ter; and tliis was the postscript of the letter: 

“I don’t know what to say or think about Sabie. Of 
course she is goodness itself to me; that she is always; and 
never was she more kind, and considerate, and affection- 
ate. And you know how I love the girl. But she puzzles 
me. For either she carries good-nature to the verge of 
folly — and over it — or else she is the most abominable flirt 
that ever breathed.” 

This set Janie a-crying; and she answered in hot haste: 

“ Mother, I beg you will not say such things about 
Sabie. It’s very little you know about her if you can 
think thus for a moment. But I see how it is, and under- 
stand it perfectly; you do love her; and you are jealous: 
and I knew that would be so the moment you saw how in- 
terested she is in Mr. Foster. I hope it won’t be a misery 
to all of us. What should we do, mother, if anything hap- 
pened to our Sabie?” 


76 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


CHAPTER X. 

AT THE ACADEMY. 

The tender heart of Janie was to be still further dis- 
tracted. Sabina refused to go up to town for the Private 
View of the Academy. 

“ I can’t leave my charge,” she wrote, “just when it is 
most necessary that she should be driven about, and walked 
about, and generally looked after. ’ ’ 

Janie, in great distress, forthwith appealed to her 
mother : 

“She imist come, mother. It is a promise. I pledged 
my word to Walter Lindsay that she should go with us. 
Surely it cannot be that she is so fascinated by that con- 
temptible horse-jockey that she is going to disappoint us 
all in this way? Of course, don’t repeat what I have just 
said, or she will think it necessary to defend him, and I 
don’t want to quarrel with her about anybody like that. 
But appeal to the real Sabie — to our Sabie. Does she 
know how Mr. Lindsay has set his heart on taking her to 
the Academy? And Mrs. Tremenheere has promised to go 
with us in your place; and then, if Sabie comes up on the 
Thursday night she can go down to you again on the 
following afternoon or evening. The truth is, I have not 
dared to speak of it to Mr. Lindsay; I could not doit, I 
tell you he has just set his heart on it, and it’s for you, 
now, dearest mother, to try to bring that abominable 
wretch to her senses.” 

There was not the slightest difficulty about it. When 
it was pointed out to Sabina that her refusal to go would 
give a great deal of pain to two of her friends, she 
merely elevated her eyebro\vs a little in surprise, as if 
that had never occurred to her before; and when Mrs. 
Wygram added that she herself would take it as a favor 
if Sabie yielded to the wishes of those kind people, Sabina 
instantly and good-naturedly said yes. Only she stipu- 
lated that she sliould go up on the Friday morning and re- 
turn the same evening. 

Walter Lindsay never knew how near he had been to a 
grevious disappointment; he was merely told (Janie as- 
suming a little air of authority on the occasion) at what 
hour he might expect Sabina to arrive at Burlington 
House. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that he had not 
been able to obtain the use of any private room for their 
luncheon, though one distinguished academician had 
facetiously offered to place the Diploma Gallery at the 
disposal of the party. And be sure he was waiting at the 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


77 


top of the staircase long before the time at which Mrs. 
Tremenheere and Sabina and Janie had promised to ap- 
pear. The people came pouring in, elderly gentlemen 
alieady opening their catalogues and adjusting their 
glasses; gorgeous matrons scanning the crowd in search of 
friends: young ladies with a quick eye for other young 
ladies’ gowns; young gentlemen with a quick eye for those 
young ladies’ faces. And to many of these the tall and 
pale young artist, who stood as close as might be to the 
wicket, was known, and he had perfunctorily to shake 
hands with them and say a word or two, but ever his anx- 
ious gaze went down that wide, thick-carpeted stair, 
eagerly scrutinizing each successive group as it arrived. 
And as it chanced, he was caught napping after all. A 
sculptor friend came to him and tapped him on the 
shoulder. 

“Lindsay,” he said, “I want you to come and look at 
my bust of Mrs. ; have you seen it yet?” 

“No, I haven’t; but I will remember; all right.” 

“ Come along, now, won’t you?— a minute Avill do — the 
fact is, they’ve all been abusing it and pitching into it — 
and I wan’t you to say it isn’t so bad as all that.” 

“ But I’m waiting for some people, man,” Lindsay broke 
in, not too cordially. 

“ My good fellow, it won’t take you a minute!” 

And so he cast a last despairing glance down the 
crowded staircase, and impatiently followed his friend 
into the sculpture room. He was not there more than 
three minutes. And then it was, as he was hastening 
back to his post, that he suddenly found before him — 
Sabina ! Other people saw advancing toward him a young 
lady, tall and fair and smiling ; he only saw a face, a kind 
of bewilderment of light shining there and in her eyes; 
and if his heart seemed to choke him somewhat (in a man- 
ner not quite consistent with the new friendship he had 
established), he had scarcely time to attend to that. Per- 
haps he shook hands with her — he did not know ; probably 
he also greeted Mrs. Tremenheere and Janie; at all events, 
he seemed to want to take them through all the rooms at 
once, and yet not to know where to begin, while the fingers 
that held the open , catalogue were far from being so steady 
as the new friendship demanded. As for Sabina, she was 
certainly not perturbed. Nor did she seem particularly 
anxious to see the pictures. She looked at the crowd in 
her gentle, bland, pleased way ; recognizing here and there 
a familiar face ; and perhaps not paying as much attention 
to her eager guide as she ought to have done. However, 
she eventually yielded to his solicitation, and they began 
their laborious round. 


% 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


He made it as easy as possible for her —if Mrs. Tremen- 
heere and Janie had pretty well to look out for themselves. 
He took her to all the principal pictures. If any one 
stopped her and spoke to her, he made no scruple about 
dragging her away, and insisting upon her looking at this 
or that. And Sabina was very kind to him, for she knew 
he was giving himself a great deal of trouble on her behalf ; 
and the new relationship he had established between him 
self and her seemed to him a distinctly joyous thing — send- 
ing, as it were, flashes of gladness through his veins every 
time she turned toward him, or spoke to him, or happened 
to let the sleeve of her bronze plush cloak come near his 
arm. It was a verj" pretty costume, by the way, that she 
wore, though it was not the simple brown homespun of his 
expectation; and he could see that it was admired— and 
that Sabina was admired — by the little covert glances that 
both men and women directed toward her as they passed. 
And of course he perjured his soul a hundred times in 
quickly assenting to everything she said. Why should he 
dispute her judgment? What was his miserable cut-and- 
dried knowledge of technique as compared with the gen- 
erous appreciation of a fresh young soul? Could he check 
kindness? Would he like her eyes to be less benignant? 
Where her abundant good-nature saw merit, what right 
had he to search out defects? In short, what mattered the 
pictures to him in any way whatever? He would have 
made a holocaust of the whole collection had it belonged to 
him, if only Sabina would have been interested in the riot- 
ous blaze. And all this, it must be remembered, was but 
part of the new friendship. 

“ And where is your own picture, Mr. Lindsay?” Sabina 
said to him. 

“ Oh, that is nothing,” he answered. 

“ But I wish to see it, ” she said. 

‘‘Really, it is not worth looking at,” he protested. ‘‘ It 
is a little thing I sent in merely to get a ticket for Varnish- 
ing Day.” 

‘‘ But I wish to see it,” she said, with mild persistence. 

“ The water color room is at the other end,” he pointed 
out ; for he did not wish Sabina to take this luckless little 
contribution as in any way representative of his work. 

‘‘ Then you won’t take me to see it?” 

Of course this was a command, and forthwith they set 
about making their way through the now crowded rooms. 
And scant indeed was the recognition his friends obtained 
from him on that busy morning, for it seemed as if there 
were a hundred thousand things he had to say to Sabina ; 
and that the time was all too short. And then was it not 
his duty to keep her amused and interested and pleased? 


i^ABTNA Z EM BRA. 


70 


He was her host, in a measure ; he was responsible for her 
being entertained; he would have ample opportunities oC 
talking with all those various friends and acquaintances 
after Sabina had gone away once more from London. 

“ Why, you seem to know everyone,” she said to him as 
they were making their slow progress through the galleries. 

And yet he had no wish to show her off — to proclaim 
their friendship, that is to say, before all these people. 
Far rather would he have had her go away into some quiet 
corner— into the room for architectural drawings, for ex- 
ample — and sit down there, so that he might recollect some 
of the hundred thousand things he had to tell her. He 
was not in any way anxious that these good folk should 
admire Sabina, or look at her pretty dress, or be struck by 
the proud and gracious set of her neck and slioulders, and 
the sweetness of her smile. He was far more anxious that 
she should not become tired, or indifferent, or bored ; and 
the hundred thousand things he had to tell her seemed to 
narrow themselves down in a dreadful way, or refused to 
be summoned altogether; so that he could only say to him- 
self, “Well, I am a blatant idiot; but Sabina is so good- 
natured that she pretends to be pleased.” The new friend- 
ship was progressing. 

Eventually they found the little picture ; it Avas a harm- 
less kind of thing — merely a study of a black Avindmill and 
an uplying field, golden Avith charlock, against an almost 
silver-Avhite sky ; and when Sabina out of kindness Avould 
praise it, he rather resented her approval, for he did not 
Avish her to imagine that Avas hoAv he ahvays painted. 

“ But you need not think that,” she said. “ I have seen 
so much of your Avork. And I am sure I did not half 
thank you for the beautiful draAving you sent me from the 
Shannon. I Avas so busy at the time. But I prize it none 
the less, I assure you ; do you know that I took it doAvn to 
Brighton, and AA^e have it hung up there— of course to be 
brought aAA^ay again Avhen we leave?” 

“Oh, did you?” he said; there was a kind of music in 
the air. 

And then he suddenly discovered that it was a quarter to 
one, and therefore time for lunch. 

“Do come, now,” he said, “and we aauII get a quiet 
place to ourselves. I don’t Avant to haA^e you tired out. 
Besides, you must be hungry; you left Brighton bj^ the 
9 . 45 .” 

“ Hoav do you know that?” she said, glancing at him. 

“ You must have left then; I looked at the time-table.” 

And they did, as it happened, get a quiet corner for 
themselves in the luncheon-room; and Avhether it Avas 
pAving to some mysterious subsidy or not, they appeared to 


80 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


be very well attended to, while people at the other tables 
were looking vacuously about them, or making impatient 
and fruitless appeals to over-harassed waiters. Curiously 
enough, too, Sabina sat at his right hand — where Mrs. 
Tremenheere should have been ; but perhaps that was an 
accident. And Janie was very pleased and happy, and 
said in an undertone to Mrs. Tremenheere— for Mr. Lindsay 
had a good many things to say to Miss Zembra, so that 
these two were occupied — that never in all her life had 
she seen Sabie looking so beautiful. Janie was a kind- 
hearted creature, and talked to Mrs. Tremenheere without 
ceasing. 

And what did Lindsay say, now that she and he were 
together in this secluded nook, their shoulders almost 
touching, their heads not far apart, he humbly solicitous 
about the smallest details of the frugal little banquet he 
had provided for her? Well, it was ml a lamentation over 
the fact that no ladies could be present even as lookers-on 
at the Academy dinner to which he was invited the follow- 
ing evening. 

“ You see,” he continued — and it was all addressed to 
Sabina — ” the walls are covered to the roof with pictures — 
as many a poor wretch knows to his cost; and I suppose it 
would be impossible to have a gallery for spectators. But 
it is a pity ; for there is no such sight to be seen anywhere 
else, or at any other time, in Great Britain. All England’s 
greatest are there— her statesmen and poets, and soldiers 
and lawyers and painters ; a stranger would think he had 
got among a lot of portraits out of the illustrated papers. 
It is an extraordinary assemblage of the brains and wealth 
of the country. Yes,” he said, glancing at her, ‘‘I have 
no doubt you are asking yourself how I ever came to be in 
that gallery."” 

” Indeed I was not,” she said, warmly. 

‘‘I asked myself the question,” he continued, modestly, 
“when I looked round last year and found myself the 
only insignificant duffer at our particular table, for I’m 
not even a picture-buyer. But I have a good many friends 
in the Academy — I suppose that is it.” 

” I should rather think it was meant as a recognition of 
your work,” Sabina said, gently, “and I should be very 
proud of it if I were you.” 

” However, as I was saying,” he interposed, rather 
quickly, “it is an extraordinary sight ; and then, you 
know, they keep the lights somewhat lowered during din- 
ner— though you wouldn’t think it, for the place is so 
brilliant— until the president has proposed the toast of the 
queen’s health, and then, when he winds up with ‘ Your 
royal highnesses, my lords, and gentlemen— the Queen!’ 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


81 


all of a sudden the lights are put at full blaze, and the ef- 
fect is quite startling. You should see them all standing 
uj)— the queen’s ministers, the ex-ministers, judges, gen- 
erals, bishops, academicians, and all-— while the singers 
at the far end of the hall sing ‘ God save the Queen !’ And 
to think that such an assemblage is brought together 
every year in England ; and that there should be no ladies 
to look on!” 

And why was he so miserable because there would be no 
gentle-eyed spectators of the following night’s banquet? 
At the banquet of the previous year —the first to which he 
had been invited — the subject had not even occurred to 
him. 

“No,” he continued, “ nor do they ask any women-folk 
to the annual dinner of the Academy club— at the Trafal- 
gar at Greenwich. But that is less to be wondered at, for 
it is a kind of half-private affiiir; and there is a good deal 
of jollification going on— smoking and singing and speech- 
making. Oh, and very pretty it is at the beginning of the 
evening, if you happen to have a seat facing the big bay- 
window, an~d can watch the red-sailed barges floating down 
on the yellow water. It’s rather an early dinner, you 
know, though they keep it up late enough; "for when they 
get back to town, a lot of them — those that aren’t afraid 
of their wives — generally go down to Mackinnon’s rooms 
in Buckingham Street, to have a midnight palaver and a 
final pipe or two.” 

“There seems to be a fair amount of merrymaking in 
the art world,” Sabina observed. 

“At present there is,” he said, rather apologetically, 
“because everybody is glad to have got finished with his 
year’s work. And from now on to the Academy Conver- 
sazione at the end of June there won’t be much painting 
done — among the landscapers, anyway — there will be a 
good deal of dining and dancing and lawn-tennis, and so 
on — but after the Conversazione the general dispersal will 
take place — away to Brittany and Spain and the Riviera, 
or over to Holland, or* up to Norway, or to the wilds of 
Connemara and Galway — each man wanting to have a 
place all to himself, of course, and growling if any one 
comes near him.” 

“ And where are you going?” she asked. 

“ I?” 

The question seemed to startle him. Perhaps he had 
made no definite plans. Or had some wild notion flashed 
into his brain that he would fain have that depend on Sa- 
bina’s whereabouts? 

“I hardly know,” he stammered. “I suppose you, too, 
will be going away from London. Miss Zembra?” 


SABINA MEMBRA. 


82 

He hardly looked up at her. 

“I think not,” she said, simply, ‘‘unless Mrs. Wygram 
improves much more rapidly than she is doing at present. 
I will keep her at Brighton for some time, and I may as 
well make that my holiday.” 

“ Do you mean that you will be in London all the au- 
tumn, when everybody else will be away?” he asked, and 
he had grown suddenly thoughtful. 

“ Your everybody else will be away, no doubt,” she an- 
swered, smiling, “but my everybody else can’t get away, 
unhappily. Yes; if I take a holiday now, I dare say I shall 
be in London through the autumn. But isn’t it time we 
were returning to tlie pictures?” 

And he was not willing to take up his task again ; for he 
had been forming certain dark designs. Sabina was going 
down to Brighton by the 4.30 express; Mrs. Tremenheere 
and Janie wanted to wait to see the people arrive in the 
afternoon ; and it was Janie who considerately suggested 
that, if Sabina must really leave, perhaps Mr. Lindsay 
would be so kind as to see her as far as Victoria Station. 
Sabina protested that nothing of the sort was necessary; 
but Mr. Lindsay took little heed of the protest; on the 
contrary, he rather hurried her through the remaining 
rooms in order that they should get away early. He was 
not sure that they would get a cab easily. The streets 
might be blocked. Wasn’t St. James’ Park torn up as 
usual? The end of it all was that he and she together left 
the Academy when it was barely four o'clock. 

And to be in a hansom with Sabina! — to be so close to 
her — to see her gloved hand resting on the little iron ledge 
—to have charge of her small traveling-bag — to be able to 
direct her attention to this and that— to steal an occasional 
covert glance at the pale oval of her cheeks and her soft 
clear eyes ! Of course he told the cabman to drive round 
by Hyde Park Corner and Grosvenor Place; and the trees 
in the Green Park were showing their foliage now ; and 
there was a breezy light in the May skies ; and the crowd 
in Piccadilly and the continual string of carriages made 
up a picture sufficiently animated and cheerful. The new 
friendship had begun so delightfully! Sabina was with 
him, and with him alone; he had charge of her; there was 
none to interfere. And she was to be all by herself in 
London through the autumn— when still she might want 
and welcome a friend. 

And then, again, at Victoria Station a little judicious 
bribery procured him access to the platform; and when 
he had procured for her a seat in the Pullman car and pur- 
chased for her a vast assortment of magazines and illus- 
trated papers, they had nearly a quarter of an hour in 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


83 


M^hich to walk iij) and down. Alas! that the time was so 
short — for he still seemed to have a hundred thousand 
things to say — and he wanted her to have some tea— and 
he was so sorry that the sleeve of her plush cloak had been 
somewhat marked by her driving in the hansom — and he 
went the length of lightly smoothing out one or two of 
these creases. Because, you see, Janie was not there, and 
Sabina was accustomed to have some one wait on her and 
be kind to her. 

The hateful hands of the great clock kept creeping on, 
and at length the guard came along with his warning. 
Sabina went in and took her seat. He kept by the window 
outside until the train began to move slowly away, and 
then Sabiiict smiled her farewell thanks to him, and presently 
he found himself standing on that wide, empty platform, 
alone. 

He did not go away quickly from Victoria Station; no, 
he kept lingering about there, looking at the long platform 
where he and she had walked together. And when at 
length he set out for home he went rather slowly and 
thoughtfully ; and, strangely enough, he chose his way by 
Cornwall Gardens and Victoria Eoad, and through Ken- 
sington Square. And then, again, he did not pursue a 
straight course; he turned back a little in Kensington 
High Street, and went into a florist’s shop there, and rather 
idly looked about, and seemed more interested in the place 
than in the purchase he eventually made. The flowers he 
directed to be sent to Miss Janie Wygram; but he did not 
send his card with them — he only meant that they should 
go to the dusky drawing-room where sometimes he had 
found Sabina in the bygone days. 

But at last he got home, and into his studio. Somehow 
it seemed a very lonely and silent place, and he could not 
even think of work. Almost mechanically he threw off his 
coat and hat, and sat down to the piano, and began to let 
his Angers wander over the keys. And what were his 
fancies about? Well, they were not very sad, after all; 
for he was thinking of August— and the great city very 
empty, but for the presence. of Sabina — and his being in 
London during that strange time— and sometimes seeing 
her. And what was the air that he was quite inadvert- 
ently~and somewhat slowly and absently— playing? He 
did not himself notice how entirely inappropriate it was to 
the new friendship. 

“ Parlatele d’amor, o cari fior, 

Ditele che I’adoro, 

Ch’ e il solo mio tesoro, 

Pitele che il mio cor langue d’amorF’ 


84 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


CHAPTER XL 

A FOREBODING. 

Sabina returned to Brighton, and to Mrs. Wygram, and 
to long, idling, sunny mornings at the end of the West 
Pier in the society of Mr. Fred Foster. Mrs. Wygram 
looked on at this continual and ever-increasing intimacy 
with alarm which it was impossible for her to put into 
words. In her small way, too, she did what she could to 
avert the danger that she too clearly foresaw. But it was 
in vain that she hinted her preference for inland drives; 
and she could not well insist, for it was Sabina who de- 
frayed the cost of these amusements. And it was in vain 
that she tried to cultivate Sabina’s interest in Mr. Lindsay; 
pointing out his name in the list of the guests at the Academy 
banquet ; telling her how he had been included in the toast 
of the “ Outsiders ” at the Academy Club dinner at Green- 
wich, and that his speech in reply had produced the most 
favorable impression; coming back again and again to 
inconsequent praise of the Shannon drawing they had 
hung up in their small sitting-room; and wondering if 
there was a possibility of his being descended from the 
high-sounding 

“ Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, 

Lord Lion King at Arms.” 

Sabina somehow seemed indifferent about Mr. Lindsay. 
She expressed no dissent when Mrs. Wygram insisted that 
he was so clever and handsome and popular and modest, 
and all the rest of it; nay, she would even admit that that 
was true, and that he was deserving of all good things; but 
there was an end. And Mrs. Wygram was afraid to ex- 
press any more clearly her wishes — and her fears. 

Moreover, as time went on, she observed a remarkable 
alteration in Mr. Foster’s manner tow^ard Sabina; and it 
came about in this way: On the morning after Sabina’s 
return from London, they as usual strolled out to the end 
of the pier ; and there, sure enough, was the occupant of 
the bath-chair, reading a pink -colored sporting paper, and 
apparently very well content with himself. 

“Ah, how do you do. Miss Zembra?” said he. “I was 
thinking about you yesterday when you were in London.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes. I chanced to fall in with one of the local mag- 
nates — an ex-mayor— who said I had met him somewhere 
or other, I forget where, and we had a pretty long chat to- 
gether. Well, among other things he was telling me about 
a fete and bazaar they mean to hold in the Pavilion Gar- 
dens to raise funds for— what was it?— I think some Con- 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


85 


Valescent Home attached to the Children’s Hospital; and 
that his wife had undertaken to get up a stall for the sale 
of flowers and bonbons, and so on.' But the ex-mayoress, it 
appears, is a sensible woman. She says she wants to ob- 
tain the services of an exceedingly pretty young lady, who 
would be able to get plenty of money for the flowers from 
the young fellows about. Well, I told him I knew some 
one who answered that description, and who might possibly 
be induced to help. 

Now this was Mr. Foster’s ordinary manner toward Sa- 
bina; and bitterly and angrily did Mrs. Wygram resent it. 
Why should he talk so coolly and indifferently? How 
dared he say to her face that she was a pretty young lady ? 
What kind of a description was^that of Sabina? Why, he 
almost assumed an air of patronage, said Mrs. Wygram to 
herself in her jealous wrath, this whipper-snapper, who 
was not worthy of having a single look of her beautiful 
Sabie bestowed on him. 

There was little difficulty in persuading Sabina to give 
her services in aid of the Children’s Hospital; only she said 
to him : 

‘‘You know, Mr. Foster, that charity has been defined 
as A asking B to help C. Now, I want to know what A is 
going to do this time?” 

“Who is A?” 

“You.” 

“How am I A?” 

“ Because you ask me to do certain things for certain 
other people. But what are you going to do jmurself?” 

“ Well,” said he, solemnly, “ if my little, speculation on 
the Two Thousand comes off all right you won’t find me 
behindhand. No, no; you’ll have one good customer at all 
events. But what am I to do with the flowers when I’ve 
got them? I don’t know anybody in this town hardly.” 

“What are you to do with them? Give them back to 
me, and I will sell them over again,” said Sabina, 
promptly. 

It did not seem to occur to him that he might present 
the flowers to Sabina herself ; perhaps he thought she was 
too matter-of-fact a young woman to care for such things. 

However, the date fixed for the bazaar was some way off 
yet ; and in the meantime they had got into a long spell of 
fine weather; and these two saw a good deal of each other, 
in the open air and the sunlight. Their meeting of a morn- 
ing at the end of the pier was almost an understood ar- 
rangement ; and then in the golden afternoons they would 
pass into the greensward inclosure of Regency Square, or 
go round to the Pavilion Gardens, now becoming beautiful 
with flowers and the cl ear- tinted young summer foliage. 


86 


SABJNA ZEMBBA. 


And not only had Sabina got her sailor’s hat, but she ap- 
peared to be much more particular about her costume than 
had been her wont in London; she made herself very neat 
and trim, and wore pretty tilings round her neck and at 
her wrists, and was most fastidious about the dressing of 
her hair. Mrs. Wj^gram ventured to make some little com- 
ment, and the girl only looked surprised— and said she sup- 
posed that it was idleness that made her attentive to such 
trifles. 

And veiy bright and cheerful and animated looked those 
Pavilion Gardens on the day set apart for the fete; the 
umbrageous elms shimmering in their freshest green; 
young maidens and children in summer costume strolling 
along the paths, or crossing the wide, smooth lawn; two 
regimental bands playing alternately ; long strings of col- 
ored lamps already hung up for the evening illumination ; 
the white tents around the inclosure busy with visitors. 
Sabina’s stall was almost entirely given up to flowers; and 
not only had she an abundant store of sprays and button- 
holes and bouquets, but also she had large masses of Avall- 
flower, daffodils, marsh- marigolds, and the like, on the 
chance of the aldermen’s wives and daughters understand- 
ing the art of decorating their dining-rooms. The worthy 
ex-mayor and his wife, on whose behalf Sabina had under- 
taken the function of saleswoman, were most assiduous in 
bringing her customers; and she was not over-exacting 
with her prices; sometimes people came back. Mrs. Wj^g- 
ram lent a helping hand. Mr. Foster was there, but made 
no undue profession of his acquaintance; whenever the 
tall, fair flower-girl was busy, he had his bath-chair re- 
moved away under the elm-trees, and remained there list- 
ening to the band. 

And now occurred the incident which seemed to Mrs. 
Wygram (but perhaps she was unjustly jealous, owing to 
Janie’s repeated warnings) to be the turning-point in Mr. 
Foster’s attitude toward Sabina. There came into the in- 
closure two young fellows who seemed to be known to him ; 
they went up and spoke him, and remained chatting. 
These were the first of Mr. Foster’s friends that Sabina 
had seen ; and she was rather pleased to find that they were 
not of a horsy type. No; they were merely a couple of 
tall, light-haired," healthy-complexioned, well-dressed En- 
glish lads, whom one might associate with plenty of boat- 
ing and cricket, but hardly with the turf. And presently 
she had a better opportunity of seeing what the}^ were like, 
for Mr. Foster brought them along to the stall. 

“Miss Zembra,” said he, “I have brought you a couple 
of customers; but don’t be too hard on them.” 

Good looking lads they were, she thought; though the 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


87 


younger one was evidently very shy. He scarcely lifted 
his eyes to tlie beautiful, gracious flower-girl ; he selected 
the first little spray that came handy ; and paid for it ; and 
seemed rather glad to retire. The elder and taller of the 
two was not so timid ; he appeared to be a little fastidious 
in his choice; and once or twice, when he asked her a ques- 
tion, he ventured to glance at her. 

“ How much did you say this rose was?” he asked. 

” Two shillings.” 

‘‘Oh yes, I will take that, if you please.” 

He put his fingers in his waistcoat-pocket and took out a 
couple of coins. 

“ I am afraid,” said he, rather bashfully, ‘‘ that you will 
find them rather discolored; but I hope you won’t mind.” 

And with that he put down two sovereigns on the board, 
and said ” Good morning,” and raised his hat and went 
away. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon-stay a moment!” Sabina instantly 
called to him. 

He turned and came back, looking somewhat confused. 
Sabina was not. She smiled toward him, and said: 

‘‘ You know I cannot give you any of the money back — 
they never allow that at bazaars — but I will give you an- 
other rose, if you like.” 

She picked out a w’hite rose and handed it to him ; her 
eyes were very gracious. 

“ I’m sure it’s awfully kind of you,” said he, blushing 
furiously; and then he managed to stammer: ‘‘ And — and. 
of course, it’s this one I shall keep — I — I don’t want the 
other one now.” 

‘‘Here is a pin if you wish to wear it,” said Sabina. 
‘‘Mrs. AVygram, will you fasten it?” 

(For Mr. Wygram was outside the stall.) 

“Thank you, very, very much,” said he; but it was to 
Sabina he said it, not to Mrs. Wygram. 

“ Look here, Lionel.” said Mr. Foster, somewhat 
sharply, “we'd better clear out— we’re only blocking the 
way.” 

And so the three friends went off, and were seen of Sa- 
bina no more that day. But by and by, when she got a 
favorable chance, Mrs. Wygram went round and inside the 
stall. She seemed vexed, and yet partly inclined to laugh 
as well. 

“ Sabie,” said she, “ I don’t know whether you know it 
or not, but I do believe you are the most atrocious flirt I 
ever saw in my life.” 

“ What do you mean?” the girl said, not a little startled. 

“ Why, the way you went on with that poor young fel- 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


low— giving him a rose— and looking all kinds of things— 
you’ve sent him away with his head quite bewildered.” 

“Oh, don’t say that!” Sabina said, but still rather won- 
dering. ‘‘Why, don’t you understand? — he gave me two 
sovereigns for a rose. Do you imagine boys of his age 
have so many sovereigns to spare— or would spend them 
that way if thej^ had?” 

“He would have given you his boots and his gloves and 
his watch chain after the way you looked at him!” Mrs. 
Wygram protested. 

“ Oh, don’t say that! I thought it was very kind of him 
to give me so much toward my stall; and of course I 
wanted to be civil to him. I hope I was,” she added, 
boldly. 

“Oh yes, you were,” Mrs. Wygram retorted. “You 
were very civil indeed— if that is what you call civility. I 
think that is what Janie calls it, too. No, she calls it 
kindness — she said it was only kindness when you sipped 
some wine out of Mr. Lindsay’s chalice, so that he might 
put it, back among his treasures.” 

For an instant or two she could not remember ; then a 
slight color came to her face. 

“ I did not think there was any harm,” she said. 

“ I suppose you don’t know that you have sent Mr. 
Foster away very angry?” 

“Mr. Foster!” said Sabina, with her eyes wide— as if 
she wanted to know what Mr. Foster had to do with her. 

“ But it’s true; and if I am not mistaken, you won’t find 
him back here again to-day!” 

Mrs. Wygram was not mistaken. Mr. Foster put in no 
further appearance. And it was not until the evening, 
when they were in the quietude of their own rooms, that 
Mrs. Wygram said: 

“ Well, now, Sabie, I will tell you the truth. I really 
don’t think you know how pretty your eyes are, and you 
do mischief without intending it. You need not look at 
men in so frank a way ; you should be a little more self- 
conscious and watchful. Why, you fairly blinded that 
young fellow this morning.” 

“A schoolboy !” said Sabina, but with her cheeks red- 
dening a little. “I wonder you could think of such a 
thing!” 

“ Sabie, why will you go on persuading yourself that you 
are an old woman?” the other” exclaimed. “ It’s all those 
hospitals! You’ve been so accustomed to take charge of 
people— to be good to them, and humor them, and be a 
Idnd of mother to them— that you forget you are a young 
woman, with remarkably beautiful eyes, And some day 


. SABINA ZEMBRA. 89 

or another you will break a man’s heart— that will be the 
end.” 

‘‘Oh, you need not talk such nonsense,” said Sabina, 
proudly. 

Now if Mr. Foster went away from the Pavilion Gardens 
in anger, he showed no trace of anything of the kind when 
they met as usual on the pier next morning. And it was 
from that morning that Mrs. Wygram (in fer subsequent 
conversations with Janie) professed to date the change in 
his manner toward Sabina. He no longer treated her 
with friendly indifference, varied now and then with a 
little jocose raillery ; he seemed more anxious to please her, 
and to win her favor. Those two Lionel lads happened to 
come down the pier that morning; and of course they 
stopped to speak to him, and they raised their hats to 
Sabina, who was standing by, and who graciously acknowl- 
edged that salutation. In the ordinary course of affairs, 
Mr. Foster might fairly have introduced them by name to 
Miss Zembra — after their kindness of the day before ; but 
he did notliing of the sort; and they had perforce to go on 
rather lingeringly, as Mrs. Wygram imagined. That after- 
noon Mr. Foster sent Sabina some flowers. The next morn- 
ing he told her he had taken a box at the theater for that 
same evening; and that it would be very, xwy kind of her 
if she and Mrs. Wygram would come ana keep him com- 
pany. 

“ But a Bath-chair— in a theater?” she said. 

“Oh, George and I will manage,” he said, confidently. 
“ If you come along in the evening, you will find me al- 
ready in the box— box G it is : I should be very grateful to 
jmu if you would.” 

And it seemed to her that it would be unfriendly to re- 
fuse; here he was in a strange town, with hardly any 
society ; and he was bearing his banishment so heroicall}^ 
And so she and Mrs. Wygram went; and found him com- 
fortably ensconced in a large box commanding an easy 
view of the stage; and there was a little bouquet lying in 
readiness for each of the ladies. The piece was a merry 
one, played by an excellent London company ; and Sabina 
had not been in a theater for many a day ; and she had the 
natural and healthy laughter of a school-girl. He had tea 
and coffee brought to them between the acts; in short, he 
paid them every attention that was possible; and when 
they finally got home, even Mrs. Wygram had to confess, 
not only that they had 'spent a most charming evening, 
but that Mr. Foster, when he chose, could make himself 
very pleasant and agreeable. 

Whether Mrs. Wygram entirely relished the change 
from Mr. Foster’s half -supercilious indifference to hi^ 


90 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


mood of eager and respectful amiability may perhaps be 
questioned ; but, at all events, it afforded her plenty of ma- 
terial for study and conjecture. One of its chief features 
was an almost continual wish on his part to be justifying 
himself and his ways of life in Sabina’s eyes. Hitherto he 
seemed to care nothing for her opinion— ho had even jocu- 
larly told her of one or two foolish love affairs. But now he 
seemed anxious to stand well with her, and would make 
excuses for himself and his pursuits, and would even recall 
things she had said on former occasions that he might urge 
some plea of defense. 

“No, lam not a great reader,” he said, one morning, 
apropos of nothing at all. “ It’s men and women who in- 
terest me most ” 

“ Next to horses!” Sabina suggested, with a smile. 

“Now, that isn’t fair. Miss Zembra; but you’re always 
hard on me of late — I don’t know why. And I was going 
to tell you about my reading; if I were compelled to have 
only two books, I would choose Chaucer and Shakespeare, 
and that is again just because they show me men and 
women. I don’t like conundrums in literature, or Avire- 
drawing, or fog; life isn’t long enough to be spent in find- 
ing things out— just because the fellow won’t speak plain. 
And then, after ail, real men and women are just as inter- 
esting to me as those I find in books. AVhen I am going 
about the streets here I find continual amusement and sur- 
prise and occupation.” 

“ I am very glad of that,” Sabina said, in an undertone, 
so as not to interrupt him. 

“Out at the end of the Chain Pier is a splendid place,” 
he continued. “Sometimes I go there Avhen I have missed 
j’ou here; and you see a good deal of human nature about. 
Sometimes very pretty, too. Why, is there anything 
prettier than to see a young girl— I mean one of those spin- 
dle-shanked creatures of twelve or thirteen, Avith a straw 
hat and long hair, and big, clear eyes— is there anything 
prettier than to see her pet an old lady — an old lady as 
ugly as the mischief, most likely, fluffy black clothes, and 
glass bugles in her bonnet? Yes, and tease her, too; and 
then put her arm round her and coax her into good-humor 
again? Or you’ll see a purple-faced old sportsman— a real 
Punjaub jungle-cock— deviled -kidneys -for-breakfast sort 
of felloAV — kind of chap Avould send blue thunder through 
his club if his chop Avere underdone, or overdone, or late 
by thirty seconds — you’ll see him come Avalking out Avith a 
sickly- AA^hite girl in a long couch, and he’ll hold the sun- 
shade over her, or read the neAvspapers to her, and be just 
like a nurse to her. Then the lads and boys — and some 
times old men— at the fishing. Well, I like to see them at 


SABL\A ZmiBRA. 


it; they’ve the true instinct, and they’re very earnest 
about it, though I never see them get anything but a reck- 
less little flounder or an eel. Spooners are not very inter- 
esting.” 

” I beg your pardon?” said she, innocently. 

“Lovers, I should say. Well, they’re not very interest- 
ing; they look so fbolish when you chance on them. Be- 
sides, it isn’t fair; they should be let alone. But I’ll tell 
you what is very funny : to go round the churches on Sun- 
day morning after service has begun ; and you generally 
find outside one or two officials — sometimes a man, some- 
times a woman — and they have the most curiously indiffer- 
ent air on their faces. They look at the sky, they look down 
the street; they seem to say: ‘Well, we’ve done our part 
of the business; we’ve shut him up with his audience; he 
has got to get through the rest of the performance now.’ ” 

“ But a thurch is not a theater,” Sabina said, gently. 

“Not all of them,” he said; and then, fearing to have 
got on dangerous ground, he pointed out to her that these 
Sunday morning perambulations were almost a necessity 
in his case, as he did not like going inside in his Bath- 
chair. 

And so this continual association and intimacy went on : 
and Sabina was very kind to him (as she was to every one, 
Janie would have said) ; and there was distinctly no in- 
difference on his part. One afternoon he was in having tea 
with them. 

“ I have a little surprise for you,” he said to Sabina. 

“Indeed !” 

“My father and mother are coming to London next 
week, and purpose running down here for a day or two. 
I hope you will let me introduce them to you; they would 
be so very much pleased.” 

Of course she said it was she who would be pleased ; but 
Mrs. Wygram was struck with a sudden dismay. 

“Do you know what he is doing now?” she instantly 
wrote off to Janie. “ He is bringing his father and mother 
from Buckinghamshire, that Sabie may be introduced to 
them as his future wife. I am sure of it — I am sure that is 
what he means. Well, I have held my tongue all this 
while, but I cannot do so any longer ; I must tell the girl 
what she is bringing on herself. Yes, this very night I 
will. But I wish you were here, Janie. I am not very 
strong just now, and I am all of a tremble when I think of 
it. Still, what would not one do for Sabie? And I know 
she is too kind-hearted to take it amiss.” 


n 


SABINA ZE3IBRA. 


CHAPTER XII. 

FLIGHT. 

But it was a long time before the little woman could 
screw up her courage ; and even at the last moment she 
fairly jibbed and bolted. Late that night Sabina was in 
^ her own room, and leisurely getting ready for bed; she 
wore a dressing-gown of pale-blue and white, and the 
I heavy masses of her golden-brown hair fell loose-flowing 
and free over her shoulders and down to and below her 
waist. 

“Dear Sabie,” said Mrs. Wygram (though this was not 
in the least what she wanted to say), “ I would give a hun- 
dred pounds if I had it that Walter Lindsay could see you 
as you are now. ’ ’ 

“ Mrs. Wygram!” Sabina exclaimed — but there was not 
much of ferocity in her virgin pride. 

“ It would be something for an artist to dream of all his 
life long,” Mrs. Wygram continued, recklessly. “Do 
you know, Sabie, you are the only woman I have ever 
seen who reminds me of Rosetti’s ‘ Blessed Damozel?’ You 
remember?— 

“ ‘ Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn.’ ” 

“I thought my hair was brown,” Sabina said, quietl3^ 
“However, it is not of much consequence. I have no 
wish to become an artist’s model. Besides, you forget 
that Mr. Lindsay is a landscape-painter.” 

“ But surely you know how wonderful he is in catching 
likenesses?” the other said. “Why, the portraits he did 
of Mrs. Seeley’s boys were quite marvelous. Oh yes; 
there’s no reason in the world why he should not do a 
figure subject. And I know he was thinking of it. Yes, I 
know; for I have the scrap of paper he gave Janie, with 
the quotation for the picture. I believe I have it now.” 

She pulled out her purse, and eventually found the little 
bit of writing. Sabina read the lines aloud : 

“ See where she sits upon the grassy green 
(O seemly sight!) 

Tclad in scarlet, like a maiden queen, 

And ermines white; 

Upon her head a crimson coronet, 

With damask roses and daffodillies set.” 

“ Yes, it sounds picturesque,” Sabina said, in her placid 
way. “And whom is he going to paint like that?” 

“ You.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Wygram, are you out of your mind?” 

“But it’s true. , He wanted to know whether you would 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


93 


sit to him. Oh, he was so anxious about it, but quite 
afraid to ask you. Yes; and he said if only Janie could 
induce you to sit to him, he would do a pencil drawing of 
you, and give it to Janie and me, as a kind of bribe, I sup- 
pose.” 

‘‘I wonder, now,” said Sabina, laughing, how many 
portraits of me you would like to have in Kensington 
Square.” 

” Don’t you think we shall be glad to have them, Sabie, 
when you are no longer there yourself?” 

And behold ! here was her chance, come quite unexpect- 
edly ; and she was bound to face it. Hardly aware of what 
she was doing, she put her trembling fingers on the girl’s 
arm, and piteous indeed was her tone. 

“Dearest Sabie, don’t be angry! No, you won’t be 
angry — but I must speak to you—I can’t stand by and not 
say a word — you know I love you, and I am sure we shall 
always be friends ” 

“Now, what is all this about?” Sabina said, gently, for 
she could see how agitated the little woman was. 

“ Don’t you know, then, why Mr. Foster has sent for his 
father and mother to come to Brighton? Can’t you guess? 
Sabie, it is to introduce you to them as their future daugh- 
ter-in-law!” 

For the briefest moment the girl seemed to draw herself 
up to her full height, and there was a proud look about 
her lips. But that instantly disappeared. She put her 
hand on the trembling hand of her companion, and patted 
it affectionately. 

“ My dear friend,” she said, with a smile, “ I see I must 
put you back on your quinine, and insist on the port- wine 
at lunch. Your nerves are all wrong— why, you are flut- 
tering at this moment like a caught rabbit— and you let all 
kinds of ridiculous fancies get into your brain.” 

“ They are not ridiculous fancies, Sabie! Why will you 
be so blind? But it all comes from the same thing; you 
will go on imagining yourself to be an elderly woman — 
whose business is to pet people and take care of them — 
whereas the truth is that you are a very dangerously at- 
tractive young woman ; and I tell you that men don’t un- 
derstand a young woman looking at them in that frank 
way. In the case of a young married woman it might be 
different ” 

“ There again!” said Sabina, with an air of resignation ; 
“you have told me all that before, dear Mrs. Wygram; 
and I don’t forget that you accused me of flirtation merely 
because I gave that pretty yellow -haired boy a rose iii ex- 
change for two sovereigns. ” 

“ Yes; and if that young man is heart-whole at this mo- 


94 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


ment, I am very much mistaken,” Mrs. Wygram retorted. 
“ Why, don’t you see how he is always hanging about, just 
for the chance of saying a word to Mr. Foster, and so be- 
ing allowed to raise his Tiat to you?” 

” Poor innocent young thing !” 

Sabie, if you choose to act like a flirt, don’t talk like 
one!” said Mrs. Wygram, sharply. 

. . ..Sabina looked at her. 

No,” she said, “you can’t make me quarrel with you 
— I won’t do it. For I know you are out of sorts; and I 
know you mean to be kind; so I can only say that you are 
quite mistaken. Why, the idea! Mr. Foster and I have 
been excellent friends simply because I know that no non- 
sense of that kind would ever enter his head.” 

“But hasn’t it? I am very much mistaken if it has 
not,” Mrs. Wygram persisted. “ Sabie, you don’t know 
what an amount of encouragement you have given him. 
And encouragement from you! I tell you you don’t know 
your own value. Why should you defer to his opinions — 
you, who have a hundred times as much brains as he has? 
And why should a beautiful young woman like you wear 
things that you think will please him? oh, but you do, 
whether you are conscious of it or not. And why should 
you be interested in stories of race-courses and regattas 
and cricket? and be entertained with accounts of what 
happened to him when he was a school -boy — as if his life, 
and every moment of it, had been of the utmost value.” 

“Poor Mr. Foster!” Sabina interposed. “There’s no 
one to say a good word for him. If it’s in London, it’s 
Janie who keeps sajung bitter things about him; and if 
it’s in Brighton, it’s you. What has he done to deserve it 
all— except to be unfortunate? And they used always to 
say that women had some sympathy for people who were 
unfortunate; but that Avas in the old days, I suppose.” 

“ You can’t deceive me, Sabie, though you may be able 
to deceive yourself.” 

“Can’t I? Well, at all events, I can put you to bed; 
and that’s what I am going to do now; for I won’t have 
any of my patients sitting up and talking past midnight. ’ 

However, this warning and appeal were not without a 
certain effect; for naturally a young woman feels some- 
what alarmed when she is told that her manner of regard- 
ing men is a trifle too audacious. Sabina brazened it out 
before Mrs. Wygram; but inwardly she was resolved to be 
a good deal more circumspect. And she wanted to know 
what it was in Mr. Foster’s relations with her that had 
prompted these wild surmises. 

Accordingly, next day she kept her eyes observant. But 
what could she see, except that he was rather more respect- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


95 


fill toward her than he used to be? He did not laugh at 
her now, nor tease her, nor hint that she was being imposed 
upon by the poor people she befriended. No, he was rather 
sympathetic in that direction ; only he said he did not like 
the idea of her going about alone— or with such an insuffi 
cient protector as Janie. Indeed, he chose to insist upon 
this point; though, of course, it was not for a cripple in a 
Bath-chair to offer to become her guard and champion and 
ally. 

She observed, also, that the stories he told her— and he 
had always an abundant stock of them, chiefly in connec- 
tion with the history of the turf — were for the most part 
not humorous or sarcastic as formerly, but rather tragic 
and romantic ; and that he seemed to have a warm admira- 
tion for Miss Dorothy Vernon and her gay enterprise. On 
the other hand, how could she suspect him of talking with 
a purpose when such an incident as the following occurred? 
They were on the Chain Pier together. He was relating to 
her the sad history of the fourth Marquis of Hastings, and 
the reckless struggles of that luckless lad to retrieve his 
fortunes. Suddenly there was a considerable commotion 
among the few idlers on the pier ; one of the anglers had 
hooked a large bass ;• you could see the fish in the clear 
green water below— tugging and plunging, and shooting 
this way and that ; and there was a frantic calling for the 
landing-net. From that instant the Marquis of Hastings, 
and Miss Dorothy Vernon, and Miss Sabina Zembra were 
alike forgotten. He took no more notice of his companion. 
And when, at last, amid the general rejoicing, the big fish 
had been hoisted up in the landing-net, and carried off to 
the weighing-machine, and found to scale just over eight 
pounds, and when the prevailing excitement had quieted 
down, Sabina had gently to remind him that he had broken 
off in the midst of a storj^ and then he could not in the 
least recollect at what point. Sabina said to herself that 
it was impossible she could wholly engross his attention 
when she was so easily dispossessed by an eight-pound fish. 

“Sabie,” said Mrs. Wygram, that evening, ‘'do you 
know that you behaved yourself a little better to-day?” 

” I am glad you approve,” Sabina answered. ” But it is 
none the pleasanter to have to be continually on the watch 
with one’s friends.” 

“ Friendship between a young man and a pretty girl, ” 
observed Mrs. Wygram, sententiouslj% “ is all very well in 
its way, but it wants to have its limits pretty clearly 
defined. And I think he understands now. He noticed 
the change in our manner — I could see that he did. And 
perhaps he is beginning to think that he was a little pre 
niature in sending for his father and mother,” 


96 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ What nonsense you talk!” said Sabina, bluntly. “I 
tell you the coming of his father and mother to Brighton 
has no more to do with me than with the man in the moon. ’ ’ 

“We Avill see.” 

“ If I thought such folly were possible, I would go up to 
London this very evening and send Janie down in my 
stead. I’m afraid I shall have to do that very soon in any 
case.” 

“ But, Sabie, I shall have to go back home too.” 

“You? Not you! You won’t be allowed to come home 
until you are ever so much stronger. Janie will take my 
place here.” 

“And what will Mr. Foster do when you are gone, 
Sabie?” 

Sabina was too proud too reply. 

But this placid and equable and eventless life was far 
too pleasant to last. Mr. Fred Foster’s father and mother 
arrived in due course, and were installed in the rooms he 
had provided for them ; and the same afternoon he brought 
them along to call on Mrs. Wygram and Sabina. He 
seemed a little anxious and nervous. But if he was at all 
concerned about the impression likely to be produced on 
the old lady by the young girl, or vice versa, he must have 
been speedily reassured. At the very first glance— while 
as yet this tall, thin, elegant-looking woman, with the 
short white curls, and apple-tinted cheeks, and soft gray 
eyes, had hardly entered the room — Sabina had formed a 
liking for her; and that was only confirmed by the singu- 
lar air of refinement and graciousness of manner that 
seemed to surround her as she came forward. And on her 
side? She took the girl’s hand in hers, and held it; appar- 
rently she was unable to utter a word : but as she read all 
that that clear, beautiful, youthful face had to say to her, 
her eyes quickly filled with tears. Sabina was frightened 
—she scarcely knew why; she managed to say a few com- 
monplace words of welcome; and then she turned to give 
a similar greeting to the old gentleman. As for him, it 
was pretty evident that he considered the whole proceed- 
ing a bore. As soon as he decently could he withdrew 
from the lot of them, and went to the window, and stared 
out there with his hands behind him, over the tails of his 
highly respectable black frock-coat. 

But the old lady was sitting next Sabina, and had drawn 
her chair very close ; and she seemed unable to keep her 
eyes— which were kind and affectionate eyes— away from 
the girl. And she said that she knew her quite well al- 
ready, so much had Fred written home about her; and 
how was she to thank Miss Zembra for all her goodness to 
him when he was shut up a prisoner in Lancaster Gate? 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


P7 

and how fortunate it was for him to have had so much of 
her companionship during liis stay at the sea-side. There 
was a great deal to talk about; but all through it the old 
lady’s glances were gently scrutinizing the various points 
of the girl’s appearance, and her costume too — the beauti- 
ful line of the neck and shoulders, her hair, the trimness 
of her cuffs, the neatness of her brooch and collar, the 
slender, tapering, but large hand, the gracious arch of the 
eyebrow— and the more that old Mrs. Foster looked the 
more and more did pleasure sit beaming upon her own 
face. Once or twice she touched Sabina’s arm; and her 
fingers seemed to linger there. She followed her every 
Avord eagerly ; she laughed when there was the least occa- 
sion ; delight and tenderness shone in the soft gray eyes. 

The old gentleman came back from the window, and 
rather brusquely remarked that it was a pity to waste so 
fine an afternoon within doors, as he had never seen 
Brighton, and there seemed to be plenty to see. His wife 
rose reluctantly. And now she held Sabina by both hands, 
and seemed loath to leave her. 

“Good-bye, dear,” she said, and still she held her hands 
a little ; and thei i, with an impulse of affection, she kissed 
the girl— kissed her on both cheeks— aiid said good-bye 
again, and went away. 

When they had gone, Sabina walked once or twice up 
and down the room, in a curiously agitated manner, and 
then came back. 

“ Mrs. Wygram, tell me — tell me what I have said 
or done— oh, you may say any harm of me you like! — 
but have I done or said anything wrong? — what do they 
mean ?’ ’ 

Mrs. Wygram was not one to seek a cheap triumph. 

“ I think it is quite clear they came to Brighton to make 
your acquaintance, Sabie,” she said, gently. 

“Yes, but why? Why did she kiss me like that?— a 
stranger I Why did she talk about their home in Bucking- 
hamshire, as if she expected me to be there at any time?” 
And then Sabina’s cheeks reddened angrily. “ What lias 
Mr. Foster been saying about me to them? What right 
has he to speak about me? If I have done anything— if I 
have done anything I should not have done— I— I will 
apologize— but they have no right— they have no right— to 
speak about me.” 

And here she burst out crying, which was a very unusual 
thing for her to do ; and of course the next moment Mrs. 
Wygrarn’s arms were round the girl’s neck, and she was 
being soothed and pacified with all kinds of endearing 
phrases. 

“Sabie, darling, be sure he said nothing about you but 


98 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


what was perfectly kind — perhaps too kind. And if there 
has been any mistake it can easily be put right. Perhaps 
the mistake is ours — I hope it is. You see, you do make 
people affectionate toward you. Perhaps she did not mean 
anything.” 

“Anyway,” Sabina said, quickly, “I am going up to 
London to-night. ’ ’ 

“You cannot do that!” her friend said, instantly. 
“ Why, it would be a confession 1 It would look as if you 
were ashamed, and had run away!” And then the little 
woman’s courage rose. “ And what has my beautiful 
Sabie to be ashamed of? I say — nothing! Haven’t I been 
with you all the time? Let them come to me if they like — 
but you are not going to run away for anj^body. ’ ’ 

All doubts, however, as to the meaning of the old peo- 
ple’s visit to Brighton were set at rest next morning, fcs. 
Foster called about eleven, and asked to be allowed to see 
Sabina alone. Mrs. Wygram went up-stairs. 

And very gently and skillfully and affectionately did this 
embassador disclose her mission. Her “ poor boy,” as she 
called him, had something of great importance to say to 
Sabina, but in his present crippled state he had never a 
chance of seeing her by herself, and would she take it 
amiss if he had asked his mother to come and plead for 
him? 

“ And for myself, dear,” said this soft- voiced diplomatist, 
“ if you knew how proud I should be to call you my daugh- 
ter!” 

Sabina had grown very white. 

“ Dear child, are you ill?” the other exclaimed; “shall I 
get you some water?” 

“No, no, no,” the girl said, and she was striving to be 
quite calm. “ I am very, very sorry, but there has been 
some mistake. I feared it. After you came yesterday I 
asked Mrs. Wygram if I had done anything ” 

“It’s not what you have done, it’s what you are,” the 
old lady said, and she took the girl’s hand. “You are 
pretty and you are good; can you wonder at the rest?” 

Sabina withdrew her hand. 

“ I see you are afraid of me,” Mrs. Foster said, smiling. 
“Perhaps it was foolish of the boy to send me here to do 
his wooing for him. You think I should make a harsh 
mother-in-law to you.” 

‘ ‘ I am sure you will be very kind to whoever your son 
marries,” Sabina managed to say, and with truth she 
said it. 

“ Then may I tell him that when he can come and speak 
for himself there will be some hope for him? I think he 
would be satisfied even with that.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


99 


“Oh, no, no, no; say anything but that!” Sabina said, but 
she seemed scarcely to understand the meaning of her 
words. “No, no, that is impossible. It was not that I 
was thinking of. Tell him I am so very sorry for this dread- 
ful mistake. I hope I was not— too— thoughtless; but, yes, 
I suppose that was it; and now what can I do? I am very, 
very sorry — tell him I hope he will forgive me ” 

“I see I distress you,” the old lady said, and she rose 
from her chair. “But remember you have only refused 
me, you have not refused him. Perhaps it was my rude 
way of asking, and he may be more successful ; and no one, 
no one would be happier than I, should that time ever 
come, my dear. ’ ’ 

She kissed her again before she leff. 

“ Remember that, my dear, I shall be a proud woman if 
ever I have to call you my daughter.” 

Sabina went hurriedly to Mrs. Wygram. She was very 
pale, but apparently quite business-like and collected. 

“ What you said has come true. I am going up to Lon- 
don, and I will send Janie down to-night. I could not bear 
to meet them again. ’ ’ 

“But, Sabie,” Mrs. Wj^gram protested, for she could 
guess what underlay this forced quietude of manner, “you 
are going away with a quite exaggerated notion of what 
has happened.” 

“I am not. Well, perhaps I don’t understand yet all 
that has happened. But I wish I had taken your warning 
earlier. I did not know.” 

Sabina arrived in Kensington Square between three and 
four, and bade Janie pack up and get away to Brighton as 
quickly as possible. But something in her look, and per- 
haps also in her coming to town so unexpectedly, awoke 
Janie’s suspicions. 

‘ ‘ What is the matter? Sabie— Sabie, you have not prom- 
ised to marry Mr. Foster?” 

There was a cry of appeal in her voice. 

“I have refused him,” was Sabina’s answer. “And I 
have covered myself with shame. But I hardly understand 
all that has happened, and— and— don’t ask me any more, 
Janie!” 

Janie’s preparations for her departure were necessarily 
hurried, but still she could think of her friend. Now, 
Walter Lindsay, not content with sending Sabina a sketch 
from the Shannon, had also painted a small replica of the 
landscape she had admired in his studio, and in her absence 
had forwarded it to Kensington Square. It was now lying 
in the parlor. Amid all her hurry Janie found time to go 
and get hold of that little picture, and carry it swiftly and 
stealthily up to Sabina’s room, where she placed it in a 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


lOO 

prominent position on the mantel-shelf. It would be the 
first thing Babina must see when she opened the door. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

REPENTANCE. 

It is hardly to be imagined that a beautiful and healthy 
young woman should have attained to the age of five-and- 
twenty without experiencing, at some time or other, and 
especially in her earlier years, cei tain tender preferences 
for members of the opposite sex; but these love-fancies, if 
they may be so called, had in Sabina’s case been quickly 
absorbed in the cares and active interests of a particularly 
busy existence. Her character was robust and indepenci- 
ent; she had little time for sentimental musings. Mar- 
riage had never entered into her scheme of life. Then she 
liad seen one after another of .her companions retire into 
the realm of matronhood, leaving her pretty much alone; 
and she had to deal with an ever-increasing amount of 
business about training-ships, convalescent homes, philan- 
thropic societies, and the like ; and it is quite probable, as 
Mrs. Wygram maintained, that these occupations of hers, 
and the almost maternal authoritj^ she had frequently to 
exercise in the liouseholds of the poor, and sickly, and in- 
digent, had taught her a certain brusqueness and direct- 
ness of manner, as of one who was too much engaged with 
the practical needs of the world around her to pay much 
attention to the refinements of etiquette. 

But when Mrs. Wygram plainly accused her of being a 
downright flirt, Sabina was entirely startled out of her 
self-complacency ; and when, closely following upon that, 
Mr. Poster made her an indirect offer of marriage, thereby 
incurring the pain and mortiflcation of a refusal, there 
was no end to her self-reproach. It was true, then, that 
she had acted with an indiscretion visible to all on-lookers? 
It was true that she had encouraged him to believe she was 
willing to be his wife? What would he think of her? What 
would his mother think of her? She recalled the patient 
and gentle grace and dignity of the old lady, the evident 
and affectionate hope that was in all her words and looks ; 
her promises of kindness; and she could imagine the 
mother going back to the son and breaking the truth to 
him in her delicately considerate fashion. Well, there was 
one woman who had never deceived him. “The only son 
of his mother,” he would at least retain his faith in her— 
the faith that he was so openly proud of. And he would 
forget that he had ever been trifled with by a flirt. ‘ 

Now Sabina never did a more foolish thing in her life 
than when she came away from Brighton. Had she re- 


SABINA ZEMBliA, 


101 


mained there, her remorse and self-abasement would have 
i)een largely mitigated. She would have discovered that 
Mr. Foster’s grief over his disappointment was not of a 
crushing nature. He was annoyed, it is true ; but he was 
annoyed chiefly by the grumblings of his father, who con- 
sidered that he had been dragged away hither on a fool’s- 
errand. Mr. Fred Foster was of a cheerful temperament ; 
despondency was not much in his way. 

“We haven’t pulled it off this time, mother,” said he, 
“ but wait till you see me on my legs again. You could 
hardly expect a high -stepper like that to get matched with 
a broken down old cripple in a paddock.” 

“ If I live to see you married to a girl like Miss Zembra, 
Freddie,” said the gentle mother, “ I shall be happy. A 
girl like that would have a good influence over you"; you 
would give up your wild life. And I am sure your father 
and I would be glad to le‘t you have the old house ; we could 
do very well at Crookfleld.” 

“ You need not count on me. I should be no such fool,” 
the elder Mr. Foster remarked, with some point. 

Mr. Fred Foster chose to ignore this chance observation. 

“Oh, don’t you make any mistake, mother; Miss Zem- 
bra isn’t a prig at all. She is just as fond of fun as any- 
body; only she has never had a chance. Why, she her- 
self told me how well she liked looking on at some dancing 
there was at an artist-fellow’s house— I forget the name — 
and she said it was quite fine to see a lot of young people — 
that’s the way she talks, you know — romping about and 
dancing the Highland Schottische and enjoying themselves 
without restraint. Oh, there’s nothing of the stuck-up 
school-miss about her, I can assure you.” 

“I do not tl)ink I should like to see Miss Zembra dancing 
the Highland Schottische,” the old lady said, quietly, 
“ though 1 hardly know why.” 

“ No, no,” said he, with a laugh, “nothing less dignified 
than the minuet in Ariadne. Well, I don’t know that I 
should care to see her romping about either. But I’ll tell 
you what I should like to see— I should like to see her 
drive a dog-cart up to Ascot Heath, two ponies tandem ; 
wouldn’t that be something hke the thing? And on the 
lawn, mother — just think of her on the lawn — why, there 
isn’t one of them would be in it with her! Think o( her 
figure I tell you there’s not one of the women would be 

in it with her — except, perhaps. Lady , and sh6 doesn’t 

go to race-meetings any more, since that thing happened. 
Well, do you know, mother, I don’t think you would 
grumble at a little extravagance— a good figure wants good 
style and the fashions have to be paid for ” 

“My dear,” said the old lady, with the least touch of 


102 SABIJVA ZEMBRA. 

remonstrance in her placid voice, “you speak very con- 
lidently.” 

“Oh,” said he, lightly, “that is a fancy picture, you 
know. But I am not so sure it won’t come off. Of course, 
I have received my snub, and must grin and bear it ; but 
while there’s life there’s hope.” 

Sabina had but little idea that he was accepting the situ- 
ation in this cbeerful frame of mind; and she was alone in 
London ; and she was very miserable. For she had a vague 
conviction that some kind of calamity had occurred, for 
which she was mainly responsible; and her wrong-doing 
was none the less distressing that it was so hard to define. 
She kept thinking and thinking over it; wondering what 
Mrs. Wygramwas saying to Janie about it; hoping that 
Mr. Foster was not too deeply offended with her. Had she 
sent him sufficient assurance of her sorrow over this hap- 
less mistake? Would it not have been kinder if she had 
seen him — to say a word of good-bye? And the beautiful 
and gentle old lady who had asked lier in so pleasing a way 
to become her daughter — ought she not to sit down and 
write to her and make some excuses for her running away? 

Sabina was very bu«y on these first days of her return to 
London; but she went about her duties with a preoccupied 
air. It struck even herself that she had less selLconfidence 
somehow in addressing people — even those best known to 
her and most dependent on her. But she guessed that 
might be the effect of her long holiday ; she had come back 
strange to her work ; she had not fallen into ihe way of it 
yet. 

Either Mrs. Wygram or her daughter wrote to their be- 
loved Sabie every day. This was professedly a medical 
report ; but of course it contained all the news of their un- 
eventful life at the sea -side. And it seemed unaccountable 
to Sabina that neither of them should ever make the least 
mention of Mr. Foster. Why she wished to hear about 
him she did not ask herself ; but each letter that came from 
Brighton she opened quickly, and each time there was an 
undefined feeling of disappointment that never a Avord was 
said about him. About the mother and father she had 
heard ; the old people had left a couple of days or so after 
her departure— Mrs. Foster calling at Eegency Square and 
leaving some very affectionate messages for Miss Zembra. 
But never the least allusion to the young man ; and Sabina, 
though writing every other day, someliow did not choose 
to ask. 

The reason Avhy Janie had nothing to say about ]\Ir. 
Foster was simply this; She had learned from her mother 
Avhat were his principal haunts, and she took care that her 
mother and herself should keep away from these, They 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


103 


never went out to the end of the West Pier, nor to the end of 
the Chain Pier, and they seldom went into the Old Steyiie 
Inclosures or to the Pavilion Gardens. For Janie’s vague 
dislike for the young man had developed into something 
like hatred when she heard that he had attempted to carry 
off Sabina from them; and that attempt having been 
fortunately fustrated, she was resolved that it would not 
be through her mother and herself that any communica- 
tions should be resumed. And she was delighted to see 
that Sabina never even mentioned his name. She had 
feared the worst from the curious interest that Sabina 
seemed to take in the character and fortunes of the stran- 
ger whom chance had thrown in her way. But that was 
all over now. He had been sent about his business. 
Sabina vvas back in London, and sooner or later Walter 
Lindsay would be calling in at Kensington Square to see 
Mr. Wygram. 

Brighton is a small place; Janie was caught at 'last. Her 
mother had lain down for a while after lunch ; the daughter 
had come out for a bit of a stroll, and had wandered down 
to the sea-front, where she took a seat on one of the 
benches. A passing Bath-chair was stopped for a moment 
just as it reached her. 

“I beg your pardon. Miss Wygram, but I’m afraid 
you’ve forgotten me?” 

She thought it was an intolerable piece of effrontery that 
he should speak to her, after what had happened, but she 
could not be positively rude. 

” How do you do, Mr. Foster?” she said, and she gave 
him her hand for a moment. “ I hope you are getting on 
well.” 

“Oh, yes, very well,” he said, cheerfully. “I can move 
about a little now, in doors. I think the Derby week will 
see me. on my legs again. And how is Miss Zembra?— I 
suppose you have heard from her.” 

And then it flashed upon her that he was assuming she 
knew nothing of what had occurred, for how else could he 
dare to talk about Sabina in this free-and-easy fashion? 

“ Oh, yes, I hear from her frequently; she is very well, I 
believe. What a pleasant afternoon for going about!” • 

If that was not an intimation to him that he might move 
on she did not know what was. But he remained. 

“ I have found it very different since she left,” said he, 
with a rueful smile. “ Very different, indeed. I had no 
idea we had been such constant companions until she left. 
Brighton seems quite deserted now. You see, you get into 
the habit of meeting people in a place like this, one day 
being just like the day before it; and you don’t notice, per- 


SABINA ^EMBBA. 


104 

haps, how much you are thrown together. But you find 
out when they leave.” 

“Yes?” said Janie; which was rather cold encourage- 
nient. 

“And I’m awfully sorry she went away so hurriedly, 
he continued (and Janie Avished he would not stare at her 
so uncompromisingly with his clear, hard, blue eyes). ” I 
don’t mind telling you there Avas a kind of — kind of — Avell, 
something happened that might have admitted of some ex- 
planation if only she had not gone aAvay so abruptly. I 
\vas awfully sorry — if I could have seen her for merely a 
couple of minutes I could have explained a lot. Yes ; and 
there’s another thing I wanted to say to her before she 
Avent back to London— Avell, it Avas talked about occasion- 
ally here— but I wanted to impress it on her— don’t you 
think she ought to look about for some male companion — 
I suppose she could not afford a secretary?— but some 
male companion, anyway, to go with her through all those 
places?” 

“Miss Zembra,” said Janie, distantly (for she was not 
going to call her “ Sabie ” to him), “ only goes to places 
where she is known; besides, she can take care of her- 
self.” 

“ Oh, I do not mean in that way,” he said, and he ac- 
cepted her repellent attitude Avith much good-nature; per- 
haps he did not notice it. “I mean in the Avay of her get- 
ting sharped. I imagine she is imposed on by a Avhole 
crowd of cringing, faAvning, sneaking wretches. If a man 
were to go with her he would let a little daylight into the 
whole affair.” 

“You think he would get to know more about those peo- 
ple than she could?” Janie asked. “ I suppose you are not 
aware, then, that Miss Zembra is a member of the Charity 
Organization Society?” 

“ But she is a woman.” 

“ A woman may have as sharp eyes as a man.” 

“ But she is sure to have a softer heart— and that’s where 
the trouble comes in.” 

Janie remained obdurate. Even that little bit of adroit 
flattery had no effect on her. And Mr. Foster, seeing that 
she was not inclined for further conversation, left a friendly 
message for her mother and passed on. 

That evening’s dispatch to Sabina could not well omit all 
mention of this intervieAv; but Janie had no scruples what- 
ever about sending a distinctly garbled version. 

“He seemed as cheerful and complacent as you could 
Avish,” she wrote, among other things, “and put all the 
blame on you for having gone aAvay so hurriedly. Every- 


SABINA ZE3IBRA, 


105 


thing could have been put right by an explanation. I sup- 
pose he means he could have explained why it was abso- 
lutely necessary you should become his wife. And he was 
kind enough to say that Brighton felt quite lonely now that 
you had gone, and that he had no idea you and he had been 
so much together. I suppose because he had not taken the 
trouble to notice. ’ ’ 

This letter — the animus of which she well understood and 
could discard— set Sabie still further wondering. What 
explanation could he mean? And so he had been looking 
back over their companionship together ; and perhaps val- 
uing it a little? And she was glad that he was putting so 
brave a face on his disappointment ; for she assumed that 
there must have been some disappointment; a man does 
not ask a woman to be his wife without having seriously 
thought it over and laid far-reaching plans and cherished 
hopes that he is anxious to have fulfilled. And, of course, 
so important a choice is a great honor to confer upon any 
girl, and one not lightly or ungratefully to be thrown 
aside. What explanation was it? she asked herself again 
and again. She knew that he was not a sentimental per- 
son ; but then neither was she herself ; perhaps she ought 
to have waited ; and listened to what he had to say ; and 
been less discourteous in her summary refusal. 

It may have been this continual questioning of herself 
that caused Sabina, one afternoon as she was going down 
through Kensington Square, to pass Walter Lindsay with- 
out recognition. He had not been so blind. He had seen 
her a long way off ; and it was as if something had sud- 
denly grasped his heart and made it cease to beat. He did 
not know she had returned to Ijondon. He was not pre- 
pared. The calm and equable friendship he had promised 
himself was not there with its quieting influence; and he 
only knew that the sight of Sabina advancing toward him 
— the real Sabina — here in Kensington Square — in Kensing- 
ton Square that he had peopled so often with ghosts and 
visions of her — this actual thing bewildered him out of his 
senses, and he could not think what he Avas to say to her. 
How was he to account for her being in Kensington Square 
at all? Was some one ill, that she had so suddenly come 
back? She would be startled and displeased at confronting 
him so unexpectedly. 

Sabina came along, all unheeding. She was not looking 
at any one whom she might meet; her e>es were absorbed. 
And wlieii she passed him he was still silent, almost fear- 
ing to disturb her; but the next moment something within 
him took control of him, and he advanced a quick step 
or two. 


306 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ Miss Zembra!” 

She turned with a little start, but the moment she saw 
who it was, there was a quick outshining of friendliness 
from the beautiful eyes and a pleasant smile of welcome. 
She had been much harassed and worried these last few 
days ; she had been almost alone ; here was an old friend 
who had been kind to her many a time. And she did not 
know that she allowed him to retain her hand while they 
were mutually asking and answering the usual prelimi- 
nary questions — perhaps he did not know it either — and she 
took no pains to conceal the pleasure with which she rec- 
ognized him, and her eyes met his with a frankness that 
took no thought of consequences. In short, during these 
few seconds her conduct was abominable, Mrs. Wj^gram 
would have said; but Mrs. Wygram was altogether for- 
gotten in the surprise and gladness of this unexpected 
meeting. 

“You are going down that way?” he said, looking to- 
ward the end of the square. 

“ Yes; I am going down to Cornwall Gardens. It is not 
often I pay afternoon calls ; but I am to meet an old ad- 
miral who has been of great service to me several times, 
and I shall have plenty of opportunity to thank him — that 
is, to beg for future favors.” 

“ May I walk as far with you?” 

“ If you like,” she said, without hesitation, “if it is not 
out of your way.” 

And here he was actually walking side by side with 
Sabina along the Kensington Square pavement, as many 
and many a time he had vainly imagined and pictured to 
himself. And what a tragic thing that he could only talk 
to her about trivial matters — about Brighton lodging- 
houses, and the crowds at South Kensington of an evening, 
and the various gossip of the studios— when all the time he 
was dying to tell her of the newly-established relationship, 
the unalterable and perfect friendship that was to last be- 
tween these two forever and ever and evermore. Of 
course he could not tell her, for she knew of no other re-’ 
lationship— -and had probably never dreamed of any ; and 
so he had to pretend to be eagerly interested in training- 
-ships and the like; while all the pleasant and amusing 
I things he had been storing up for her during these many 
weeks had gone clean out of his head. No matter ; Sabina 
was about as close to him as she had been in the hansom; 
and he was keeping step with her as well as he could and 
bending toward her a little, so that he could listen to her 
the more easily, and sometimes he succeeded in making 
her laugh, and her laugh was pleasant to hear. And he 
knew that for him thenceforth this Victoria Road would 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


107 


be a blessed thoroughfare; he and she together had passed 
underneath the overhanging trees of those front gardens; 
for him, at least, the place would be forever haunted. 

Nor even when she had passed within the hated portals 
of that house in Cornwall Gardens was he likely to quit 
the neighborhood so long as she was there. Of course, he 
could not wait and offer to escort her back home again, if 
she were going home ; that would have been too significant ; 
but he could linger unobserved until she came out, and 
have at least a last glimpse of her. And that was all he 
obtained; for on Sabina’s coming out of the house, she 
took the first cab she saw, and was driven away he knew 
not whither. 

But he was happy enough ; nay, his heart was filled with 
rejoicing. Nor would he go northward by Victoria Road 
and Kensington Square; the way they had come seemed to 
him syil rich with the glory of her presence ; he would not 
go ana see how empty the thoroughfares looked. No, he 
went away in another direction altogether ; and eventually, 
after many aimless turnings and wanderings, found him- 
self, toward seven o’clock, out in the Addison Road neigh- 
borhood, and at the door of the studio of an old jplium of 
his. - 

This Willie Meteyard was rather celebrated in his way 
as having been an unconscionable number of times on the 
very edge of being elected to the Academy, and failing at 
the last moment through some unexpected combination; 
but he took these disappointments very equably, and 
worked away at his pictures of Irish peasant life with an 
assiduity which brought him a fair amount of fame and 
the dealers a large amount of money. He was a bachelor, 
and he was sitting down to a bachelor dinner when Walter 
Lindsay entered. Artists, as a rule, are not over-exacting 
in their needs ; there was soon another plate on the table. 

“ What are you going to do to-night, Willie?” the visitor 
asked. 

“I’m going with those Mowbray girls and their mother 
to the theater.” 

“You’ll have to dress and get away immediately, I 
suppose?” 

“ What a nuisance ! You’d much better stop where you 
are, and we’ll go into the studio and have a pipe and some 
music.” 

Now, Mr. Meteyard was much fonder of music tlian of 
the theater; and he knew that when Lindsay got into the 
vein he played very well indeed, and with quite unusual 
feeling; besides, Lindsay was an old friend, and the Mow- 
brays were mere acquaintances; and the promise was not 


108 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


a very definite one ; and there was a large party going to 
the theater, and he would not be missed. Finally, he 
wanted to stop — and he stopped. 

The evening passed pleasantly enough, though by de- 
grees the two friends ceased from music, and took mostly 
to smoking and lounging and chatting in the comfortable, 
hushed studio. And, of course, Walter Lindsay had but 
one subject, to which he returned again and again by many 
subterfuges; and that subject, of course, was the beautiful 
nature and disposition of Miss Zembra, and the ennobling 
effect of an assured friendship with such a woman ; the in- 
fluence it must have on one’s character, and on one’s 
work, too, making it sincere, and earnest, and of a lofty 
aim— all of which Willie Meteyard had heard a few times 
before. At last he said : 

“Look here, Walter, my good fellow, let’s have an end 
of this. It’s no use your trying to humbug me. All your 
talk about friendship is pure idiocy. I tell you I believe 
what you say of the girl — I suppose it’s all true ; ^but 1 tell 
you this as well — and it’s as plain as a pikestaff to every 
one but yourself — I tell you, you’re just madly in love with 
her.” , 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A ROSE-DECORATED BALL. 

To name a thing is nothing; other people might call it 
love, if they liked ; he was content to regard it as a beauti- 
ful and ideal friendship; and he could have wished that 
this was the fourteenth century, and London, Florence; 
and that a certain chosen band of charming ladies and 
young gentlemen might retire to a small and fair domain 
without the city, there to walk in cool gardens and fra- 
grant meadows, singing songs and telling stories, weaving 
garlands of flowers, and dancing to the dulcet strains of 
lute and viol-all to show to the world that perfect and 
frank good^ comradeship might innocently and advantage- 
ously exist between unmarried men and maidens. In the 
meantime, he was neither in Florence noi* in the fourteenth 
century; and, indeed, he was too much occupied with the 
one sole and consuming question as to how lie should 
manage to see Sabina again to waste much thinking over 
impracticabilities. 

But afternoon calls were useless, for Sabina was rarely 
at home in the daytime; haunting the neighborhood of 
Kensington Square was tantalizing beyond endurance; 
and not until Mrs. Wygram came back from Brighton 
could he hope for an invitation to spend an evening with 
them. Was there no other way? For this constant de- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


109 


ftire to meet her again~if only for a few minutes, just to 
see how she was looking, and hear her voice— banished 
every other thought and fancy from his brain ; and he 
neglected his work, and his ordinary companions held but 
little interest for him; and London became at once a de^ 
light and a torture to him— knowing, as he did, that Sabina 
was somewhere within the vast extent of it; and from 
morning till night he kept vainly guessing at her probable 
whereabouts. All this was friendship of a very exalted 
and devoted character, he knew ; still, it was friendship. 

One afternoon he went down to the house of a famous 
academician, and found the mistress of the mansion at 
home. There were a few visitors present, and when they 
rose to leave he remained ; he wanted to have a little pri- 
vate conversation with Mrs. Mellord. 

•‘Why,” said he, when they had gone, “from what I 
hear, the whole of London is coming to you on the 22d.” 

“ Oh no, no — only a few friends,” she said (all hostesses 
say the like). “We shall be very quiet — don’t you be 
frightened away ’ ’ 

“ Oh, I sftn coming, of course,” he said. 

“I have got some pretty women,” she observed en- 
couragingly (and she herself was charming enough, both 
in appearance and manner). 

“You always do have pretty women at your house,” he 
said. “Don’t you know that other people are a little bit 
jealous? How do you manage it? They’re not too fond of 
shining side by side. They like to be solitary stars. Well, 
now— eh— I wanted to ask you if you had sent a card to 
the Wy grams.” 

“The Wygrams?” she repeated, with the least touch of 
surprise. “ I don’t think I did, then.” 

“ Oh, but you ought,” he made bold to say (for he was 
on very friendly terms with this pretty Mrs. Mellord). 
“Oh, yes, you must — a kindness, you know — auld lang 
syne ” 

“I should hardly have thought it was in their way, ” she 
said, still looking rather puzzled. And then something 
seemed to strike her, and she regarded the young man 
with shrewd and demurely smiling eyes. “ I suppose you 
mean that Miss Zembra should be included?” 

“Miss Zembra?” he answered, and he took up an Egyp- 
tian scent-burner and affected to be deeply interested in 
the potter's handiwork. “ Well, yes, I understand she is 
still living with them. I don’t know that she would care 
to come — probably not. She would want some persuasion, 
I suppose, if you were kind enough to ask her. However, 
if you want another pretty woman, there is one. Of course, 
as I say, she would have to be persuaded— she doesn’t often 


no 


SABINA ZEMBUA. 


go out— but you could tell her, for example, that she ought 
to go out from time to time — seeing how rich people enjoy 
and amuse themselves should sharpen her sympathy with 
those poor people she works among— you might put it that 
way, if you thought it worth while asking her.” 

Mrs. Mellord burst out laughing. 

‘‘Do you know, Mr. Lindsay, that you are a very ad- 
mirable actor? Of course, it is not you who want Miss 
Zembra to be here on the 22d. Oh, no! And your air of 
indifference— excellent! Do you think I have heard noth- 
ing? — with all the town talking about your infatuation for 
Miss Sabina!” 

He reddened to the temples. 

“I was not aware there were so many idiots in the 
world.” 

‘ ‘ Don’t be angry, ’ ’ said his friend, placidly ; ‘ ‘ they might 
have coupled your name with a plainer girl. Now let us 
understand each other. Supposing I go to Miss Zembra 
and talk her over, and get her to come here, perhaps you 
would like to take her in to supper?” 

He looked up quickly, but she did not give him time to 
speak. 

“I suppose you would not object. Well, then, every- 
body say^ that Herr Borella is a great chum of yours. I 
saw him the other night, and he refused to come to me on 
the 22d — the flimsiest excuse you ever heard ; do you think 
you can induce him to change his mind?” 

‘ ‘ I know I can. ’ ’ 

“And will you get him to sing?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ For, don’t you see, I am not going to sacrifice the whole 
night to you boys and girls. I must have some little 
amusement for the elderly people, and I am going to have 
distinct intervals between the dances, and have music— 
songs, I mean, for no one listens to anything else. Well, 
then, I have got Madame Secchi and Angelica Russell and 
Isidore, and one or two others, and I want your friend 
Borella as well.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” he said promptly. 

“You really think you will get him to sing for me?” 

“I’ll make him sing.” 

“Because,” said pretty Mrs. Mellord, gravely, and she 
regarded the young man with eyes that meant a good deal 
— “in that case I think, out of sheer gratitude, I must do 
my best to persuade Miss Zembra.” 

The 22d was a long way off yet, however; and in the in- 
terval the Wy grams came home from Brighton. During 
this time he encountered the sympathetic Janie occasion- 
ally, but saw very little of Sabina, who was busy with her 


SABINA 2:EMBRA, 


in 


multifarious duties; so that all the more he looked forward 
to the evening on which he -was to meet her at Mrs. Mel- 
lord’s, and always with the tacit assumption that he was 
io have the monopoly of her society on that occasion. 
Had it not been so at his own house on that memorable 
night? Sabina was his companion all the way through ; at 
supper she had sat on his right hand, and talked almost 
exclusively to him; in the studio the others were free to 
dance, or listen to music, or amuse themselves as they 
chose ; Sabina and he were apart, and together. And as it 
was then, so it would be now ; for who else had such a 
claim On her? 

And at last came the night of the ball, and it was the 
very height of the London season; and as carriage after 
carnage drove up to Mrs. Mellord’s house the crowd on the 
pavement had more or less distant glimpses of very dis- 
tinguished people indeed— a generally recognized face 
causing a little murmur of comment— and of the less- 
known women-folk who stepped along under the awning in 
the lightest and palest of summer cloaks and hoods. And 
pleasant it was on this hot June night to pass into the 
spacious hall of white and black marble; and fresh and 
cool looked the tall ferns that went all the way round the 
walls; and there was a grateful flashing of the central 
fountain, where a ghost- white alabaster swan floated mo- 
tionless in the middle of a miniature lake. But from the 
hall upward and onward there was no decoration but roses. 
Ropes of roses adorned the staircase; festoons of roses hung 
above the doors ; masses of roses gave color to the pale-gold 
ballroom ; and on the supper-table— as yet concealed from 
the public eye— lay a bed of red roses from end to end. 
Everywhere there was a scent of roses, and a sound of 
music, too, for the dancing had begun; and pretty Mrs. 
Mellord, at the head of the staircase, was already becoming 
anxious that the people should disperse a little, and not 
crowd so obstinately round the ballroom door, 

Walter Lindsay was not in that ballroom. No, he was 
in the spacious hall below, lounging about with Willie 
Meteyard, and pretending to listen to him. The subject of 
their talk was etching, ordinarily a sufficiently attractive 
topic for most artists ; and Meteyard was most enthusi- 
astic about a wonder-working press he had just purchased. 
Somehow or other, however, Walter Lindsay’s attention 
was but intermittent. He looked anxious. He kept glanc- 
ing toward the wide-open doorway, and to the brilliant 
crowd that came slowly pouring in. And at last, with a 
sudden “ See you by and by,” he abruptly left his com- 
panion and made for a certain small group that had just 
arrived. 


112 


SABINA ZEMBBA, 


Sabina (so tall she seemed ; and to him she appeared to 
be enveloped in a cloud of white gauze— but that was be- 
cause he had no eyes for anything but her face and the 
possible look of welcome he might find there) was appar-^ 
ently a little surprised to meet him. 

“In London still?” she said, in a direct way. “Why 
are you not in the country at work?” 

He stammered some excuse. 

“ And you might well ask what brings us here,” she 
added, with a smile; “ but Janie wanted to see the roses.” 

They passed into the cloak-room. He was very nervous 
while awaiting them. He wanted to get possession of Sa- 
bina from the first— to establish a riglit of companionship 
that no one could interfere with. And what if they were 
to be separated on the crowded staircase, or if she were to 
be snatched away from him on her entrance to the rooms 
above? It suddenly occurred to him that he was, in a 
manner, helpless. In his own home, with Sabina as his 
guest, he could do what he liked. He could choose her seat 
for her, take her hither and thither, and generally assume 
charge of her. But here, in another person’s house, he had 
no such control; all sorts of untoward accidents might 
happen ; wild beasts (in the shape of strangers wanting in- 
troductions) would be waiting up stairs to devour her. 
And what had he come for if Sabina were to be spirited 
away? 

However, when the women reappeared, it was very evi- 
dent that Sabina had no intention of ignoring the claims 
of old friendship. She came forward to him quite frankly; 
appeared to take it for granted he was waiting for them, 
and went up the staircase with him, these two together, 
and Janie looking on with marked approval. 

“ I wish Mr. Foster could see them now,” she said, in an 
undertone, to her mother. 

“You know,” Sabina said to her companion, “ we are 
going away quite early. I cannot have all the good that 
Brighton did to Mrs. Wygram undone again. Wasn’t it 
kind of her to take all the trouble about bringing us here 
to-night? but Janie was so anxious to see the pretty rooms; 
and then Mrs. Mellord is a very persuasive woman— when 
she sets her mind on a thing ” 

“Oh,” said he, “I wdll take you where you will see 
everything without getting crushed. I know you don’t 
care much about dancing. Miss Zembra, and I don’t either; 
why, I detest it— in this hot weather— in a crowd ” 

But they were now arrived at the head of the staircase. 
Mrs. Mellord was not much surprised to find Walter Lind- 
say appear at the same time with Miss Zembra; and she 
gave both of them, and tlie Wygrams, a pleasant greeting, 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 113 

only she took occasion, as she pressed Mr. Lindsay’s hand 
slightly, to say 

“ Borella is here, and has already sung twice. You are 
a very good boy.” 

Now as Walter Lindsay was familiar with this house, 
and as all the rooms on this floor were en suite, he found 
no difficulty in taking his little party by a roundabout 
way to a corner where they could have a commanding 
view. And a very pretty sight it was; the pale-hued 
walls, the brilliant lights, the masses and ropes and fes- 
toons of roses ; young English girls showing further roses 
in their cheeks, their eyes vivid with the animation of a 
waltz; dowagers gorgeous in velvet and satin and dia- 
monds; here and there in the “general circle,” if one may 
use the phrase, the resplendent costume of a dusky Indian 
prince, or the quieter garments of a group of Chinese offi- 
cials looking on with impassive stare. Perhaps, indeed, 
the “general circle” was more interesting to the ordinary 
observer than the industrious young men and maidens 
who were engaged in the active business of the evening; 
for there were many famous folk here ; and, luckily for 
Lindsay’s companions, his acquaintance was not confined 
to mere painters and poets, and people of that kind. How- 
ever, they were not suffered to remain long in this quiet 
corner. The son of the house had espied them; a qua- 
drille was being formed ; he brought along a partner, and 
introduced him to Janie. Janie was a good girl, and told 
no lie; only she threw a little despairing glance toward 
Sabina. 

“Won’t you come in, Sabie?” she said. 

“Will you?” said Walter Lindsay, quickly. 

“ Oh, yes,” was the placid answer. 

And so, before he knew what he was about, he found 
himself engaged to dance with Sabina; and quite inadvert- 
ently he took her hand so as to put her in proper position, 
and his heart was beating pretty quickly, and the music 
that had now begun made a fervor in his brain, so that 
the little speeches he made to her were rather incoherent. 
Fortunately they were “sides,” and in the period of wait- 
ing Sabina looked on, calm and bland and smiling. When 
it came to their turn she went through the various evolu- 
tions with a simplicity and ease and grace that entirely 
surprised him, and wrought him a more deadly woe than 
ever. Was it her beautiful figure, then, that caused her 
slightest movement to appear so fine and finished; and 
then she was so gentle and dignified in her self possession, 
and Janie’s eyes, as he could see, were full of admiring 
pride; she seemed to be saying, “Is not our beautiful 
Sabie perfect in everything she does?” And, of course, 


114 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


he pretended to have forgotten the figures in order to have 
information given him in an undertone; and he rather 
lingered in letting go her hand when they returned to 
their places, and he, too, spoke to her in an undertone, as 
if to shut away the outer world. But alas! this close 
companionship could not last forever; the music and the 
dancing ceased, and he had to take her back to Mrs. Wyg- 
ram. It was Perdita he was thinking of, and Florizel’s 
speech to her; “What you do still betters what is done. 
When you do dance, I wish you a wave o’ the sea, that 
you might ever do nothing but that. ’ ’ Only this w as rather 
a tall and stately Perdita, though her manner was gracious 
enough. 

Madame Secchi was now singing the “Casta Diva ” air 
from “ Norma,” but he did not listen attentivelj’^ ; he was 
busy with the fear that that officious young Mellord would 
presently be bringing along some partner and stealing 
Sabina away from him. And he was resolved that no such 
thing should occur. So he charged them not to move from 
their present position, and slipped away through the crowd, 
and reached his hostess. 

“Mrs. Mellord,” said he, “are you going to be awfully 
good to me?” 

“I always am,” was the prompt reply. 

“Yes; but this time especially?” 

“What is it?” 

“ Miss Zembra and the Wy grams are not going to stay 
late, and I want to show them the supper- room ; I’ve heard 
about the roses. May I take them in?” 

“ The candles are not lit yet.” 

“ Oh, but there will be some kind of light.” 

“Very well, then.” And then she looked at him with 
laughing but friendly eyes. ‘ ‘ Promise to be grateful to me 
all your life. I will let you give them supper now, if you 
can find any.” 

“No— may 1?” 

“But get the servants to put the table straight- don’t 
forget that. ’ ’ 

And right gladly and swiftly he went back to his friends; 
the music had not yet finished; Sabina was still there. 

“Come along,” said he; “I am commissioned by Mrs. 
Mellord to take you into the supper- room— before any one 
else goes in— come along!” 

And then he bundled them away, and guided them 
across the upper hall, and opened the ponderous rosewood 
door, and ushered them into this long, dimly lit chamber. 
But even these few lamps showed what a beautiful rooni 
it was— the abundance of flowers, the silver candelabra, the 
crystal and china, making the table very pretty indeed. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


115 


Then it was cool and quiet and mysterious; there was no 
servant of any kind near; they were as children who had 
stolen into some forbidden place. Of course the women- 
folk would not hear of his attempting to get them any sup- 
per. Would he disarrange that beautiful table? They 
could get some refreshment, if they wanted any, in the 
other room. 

Then said Janie: 

“ Mother, Sabie is tired after her long day’s work. Let 
her stop here— in the cool. We will go back and look at 
the dancing.” 

Sabina was nothing loath ; this room was indeed much 
less hot than the others; he had got her a comfortable 
chair; and when she had time, she enjoyed laziness luxuri- 
ously. What did she talk to him about? It seemed a 
matter of little concern to her. He was all eagerness to in- 
terest her — about a dozen different subjects; but she an- 
swered as if the mysterious lights, and the cool atmosphere, 
and the scent of the roses were enough for her. She lay a 
little back in her chair; the solitary diamond in the slen 
der necklace round her throat flashed from time to time ; 
she never raised her eyes to his; she seemed content- and 
blandly indifferent. 

But there was a growing wildness in his brain ; at any 
moment she might carelessly rise and signify her wish to 
return to the b^lroom ; and he could not control her going. 
He took a rose from the bed of roses. 

“Miss Zembra, will you give me this rose?” he said, in 
rather a low voice. 

In an instant she seemed to be startled into half- con- 
sciousness, and to recollect where she was— and what Mrs. 
Wygram would probably say of her. The next moment 
she had risen and taken the rose and placed it gently back 
on the table. 

“ We must not rob Mrs. Mellord,” she said, with perfect 
quietude. “And now shall we go back?” 

“I would wait ten years to get that rose from you,” he 
said, for this madness was still in his brain. 

Perhaps she did not hear. She preceded him calmly to 
the door, and there, indeed, she lingered for half a second 
until he rejoined her; and together, as if nothing had hap- 
pened, they returned to the Wygrams. But he was very 
pale ; and all this thing round him was phantasmal — the 
din and splendor were alike bewildering; he looked on, but 
his eyes were blind. 

Sabina began to question Mrs. Wygram about going, and 
this somewhat recalled him to himself. Nay, she spoke to 
him too, and with no studied coldness, but rather with a 
certain timidity. Had she heard, and yet was not angry ? 


116 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


Or was it that she was too gentle to be angry? she would 
rather pretend not to have heard at all. 

Very soon the Wygrams and Sabina left, and for him 
the rose-scented ball was over. He returned no more to 
those brilliant rooms, with their blazing candelabra, and 
beautiful dresses, and gay music. He put on his thin sum- 
mer overcoat and went away listlessly— and yet with a 
kind of excitement in his brain— through the dim gas-lit 
streets— down by Gloucester Eoad, and Cornwall Gardens, 
and back by Victoria Road, and so, and stealthily, throiigh 
Kensington Square. The lights were already out in the 
well-known house. And then he wandered away up in 
the Netting Hill direction, until he reached his own home; 
and there he went into the studio, and turned up the gas, 
and threw off his coat and sat down. What had happened ? 
And right well he knew ; no further disguise or pretense 
was possible now ; his inmost soul had spoken— to himself, 
if not to her. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN ALLIANCE. 

One morning Sabina and Janie were engaged on an 
errand in Richmond Road, Old Brompton, when a hansom 
cab that had come rattling along behind them was pulled 
up, and the occupant stepped out. Sabina happened to 
turn her head. 

“Mr. Foster!” 

And, indeed, it was Mr. Foster— brisk, smiling, com- 
placent; very smartly dressed and gloved, too, though the 
tall hat made him look a little bit unfamiliar. 

“This is a stroke of luck,” said he. “I was driving 
down to the sports at Lillie Bridge— little expecting to have 
this pleasure.” 

“ Oh, but you can’t tell how glad I am to see you able to 
get about again,” she said, with great earnestness. “In- 
deed, indeed, I am very glad!” 

“There is not much to boast of yet,” he said, lightly. 
“I don’t think I should like to back myself to run the 
Open Quarter Mile in forty-eight seconds. That was done 
on Saturday at this very place. But we are getting on. 
And at any rate a hansom is more comfortable than a 
Bath-chair. I am just making the fortunes of the London 
cabbies at present. Well, now, I won’t detain you, for I 
saw you were walking quickly, but I want you to tdl me 
if I may call at Kensington Square— to make your ac- 
quaintance, you know.” 

“ To make my acquaintance?” she repeated; she did not 
understand. 


SABINA P^EMBBA, 


117 


“Why, yes,” he continued, cheerfully. “You’ve onlj^ 
known me as a cripple — in a Bath- chair and a pot hat. I 
want to introduce myself in a new character. May I come 
to see you— and Mrs. Wygram?” 

“I am sure we shall be very pleased indeed,” Sabina 
answered, with evident sincerity. “Why, you don’t 
understand — it is like getting well one’s self to see you 
as you are now. Don’t you feel very happy about it? I 
do.” 

Her sympathy was exceedingly frank, and her pleasure 
on witnessing this transformation obvious enough. In- 
deed, in her surprise and gratification over this sud^den en- 
counter, she had entirely forgotten the little tentative em- 
bassy that Mr. Foster’s mother had undertaken, and when 
he asked her to say on which day he might call at Ken- 
sington Square, she instantly named the following after- 
noon. 

“Sabie,” her companion remonstrated, “you will be at 
the Charity Organization.” 

“ I shall be home by half- past five,” was the answer, 
“and very glad of a cup of tea— because sometimes the 
proceedings are not quite unanimous.” 

“What?” Mr. Foster struck in. “You don’t mean to 
say that those good people have an occasional bickering? 
Well, I should like to be there— to lend you a helping- 
hand.” 

Sabina laughed. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, innocently. 

“ I think you would make a strange figure at a meeting 
of the Charity Organization Society,” she remarked. 

“I’ve got an English tongue in my head— I could speak 
my mind,” he said, bluntly. “However, I see you want 
to be off. To-morrow at half- past five, then.” 

And he got into the hansom again and drove away, 
Avhile they turned out of this thoroughfare and made for 
the Fulham Road. As they were going through the 
Boltons, Sabina said : 

“ I am so glad we met him. I feel quite happy about it. ” 

“ I don’t see why his recovering from an accident should 
be of so much importance to you,” Janie said, rather 
coldly. 

“You forget that I was mainly the cause of the acci- 
dent,” Sabina answered, but in her gentle way. 

“We will not discuss that, for we are not likely to 
agree.” And then Janie added, sharply, “And look at 
t lie way he occupies his time now that he can get about 
again — driving in hansoms to jilaces of amusement— his 
only thought for himself. Why, Sabie, I can’t understand 
the interest you take in that man. There never were two 


118 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


human beings so entirely dissimilar in everything. When 
T think of the life he leads— sports and pleasures and 
pastimes from week’s end to week’s end; and the life that 
you lead— working hard, and all for other people ” 

“Janie, Janie,” Sabina said, with a laugh, “ why will 
you be so violently prejudiced? Haven’t I told you a 
hundred times that what is right for one person is not 
necessarily right for every one? Different people have 
different hobbles; and I happen to have mine. Do you 
think, if I could ride like Mr. Foster, and play cricket, 
and so on, I should not be intensely interested in those 
things?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Janie, with cutting irony. “ I can quite 
imagine Sabina Zembra a champion slayer of pigeons. 
Two to one, bar one. That’s just like you, Sabie!” 

When Mr. Fred Foster called at Kensington Square the 
following afternoon he was even more scrupulously neat 
in his attire; and the slight lameness from which he still 
suffered served as an excuse for the display of a walking- 
stick, the head of which was of elaborately carved jade. 
There was no embarrassment about him over this his 
first visit to the house; he was most pleasant to Mrs. 
Wygram (Janie had gone out); he was anxious to hear 
from Sabina of the proceedings at the Charitable Organi- 
zation Society; and he facetiously remarked that, al- 
though he had intended to introduce himself as a new ac- 
quaintance, it was impossible to keep up the pretense —he 
preferred to acknowledge that he had fallen among old 
friends. 

“Well, you know,” he said, “ the memory of a holiday 
place and the time you spent there is always far finer than 
the thing itself, and fortunately so. Don’t you ever think 
of those mornings at Brighton, Miss Zembra— out at the 
end of the pier, you know ; the fresh wind, the clear skies, 
and the music ; the young people about ; and you begin- 
ning to think that when lunch -time comes along you will 
be quite ready? Very jolly mornings they were, weren’t 
they? And when you look back at them they seem very 
bright somehow— a poetical halo, I suppose? And that,” 
he continued, warming to his subject, for he was evidently 
bent on making a good impression, in his self-complacent 
way— “ that is what I should like to have in my composition 
—just enough poetry to make things look a little better 
than they are. It’s no great harm to go on thinking all 
your geese are swans, so long as you don’t find it out. Of 
course, I shouldn’t want to have as much poetry as would 
drive one into publishing it, and running the racket of the 
critics, and becoming miserable if the public wouldn’t look 
at you. Oh no ; I should like to be able to take a fairly 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


119 


roseate view of things, but for my own use; I shouldn’t 
care a rap what other people thought of them. As for 
writing real poetry, now — well, I don’t know — I suppose it 
may be interesting to be a famous person— in your own 
lifetime, I mean — people stare at you, if that is any good 
to you — but beyond that what is there in fame? I don’t 
see that it would be of any advantage to me that people 
should remember my name two hundred years after my 
death.” 

His apologia provita sua would sometimes come in thus 
in the most unexpected fashion ; but indeed it was unnec- 
essary, for Sabina had a wide experience of diverse modes 
of life, and she was tolerant to a degree. If he seemed to 
spend a good deal of his time up at Lord’s and at the Oval, 
why should he not, on those pleasant eummer afternoons? 
He Avas harming no one, as far as she knew. 

He did not overstay his welcome; and it was clear that 
on this first visit he had managed to somewhat mitigate 
Mrs. Wygram’s prejudice against him; for it was with no 
great asperity that she said, Avhen he had gone : 

“ Sabie, don’t you think it just a little awkward that Mr. 
Foster should come here?” 

“ Why, then?” the girl said, Avith some surprise. 

“Well, you know it is not such a long time since he 
asked you to.be his wife— indirectly, at least. And a re- 
fusal is supposed to mean something. I should not wonder, 
now, if you encourage him to call, and receive him in that 
frank way you have Avith everybody, he may begin to 
imagine that you would not be sorry if he repeated his 
offer.” 

Sabina reddened a little, but she said ; 

“Dear Mrs. Wygram, you must not put such fancies 
into innocent people’s heads. I am sure he is thinking of 
no such thing. He is as busy in his own Avay as I am in 
mine; especially now that he can get about again.” 

Busy as he Avas, hoAvever, Mr. Foster found time to pay 
several visits to Kensington Square; and he Avas very 
straightforward in asking Sabina Avhen she Avas likely to 
be found at home. He seemed exceedingly desirous of es- 
tablishing affectionate relations betAveen "her and the old 
lady in Buckinghamshire, One day he brought with him 
a magnificent basket of straAvberries. 

“ This is a little present from my mother. Miss Zembra,” 
ho said, “and she wants you to know that they are her 
OAvn growing — of course she is rather proud of them.” 

“That is very kind, I am sure,” Sabina said. “Will 
you give her my best thanks and say how good it Avas of 
her to think of me?” 

“If you wouldn’t mind sending her a note yourself, 


120 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

Miss Zembra?” he suggested. “It would please her so 
much.” 

“Oh, yes, I will,” Sabina said at once; “ give me the 
address. ’ ’ 

And so the brief note was written and dispatched to 
Buckinghamshire. Of course it needed no reply, but all 
the same the reply came, in the shape of a very long and 
affectionate letter, in which the old lady ventured to hope 
that she had done no harm by a certain indiscreet disclos- 
ure made at Brighton. Moreover, inclosed in the letter 
was a photograph of the garden where the strawberries 
were grown, with Mrs. Foster seated in an arm-chair, and 
the old gentleman, scissors in hand, standing at the door 
of the vine-houses. ,It was a pretty and peaceful-looking 
picture ; and Sabina, in acknowledging the receipt, said so. 
What, then, should arrive— even by return of post — but 
an invitation— a general invitation— to Sabina to come 
down to this peaceful retreat whenever she felt tired, or 
ill, or depressed, with abundant assurances that she would 
be treated with the most considerate care. A more than 
friendly letter, nicely worded; and Mr. Fred Foster was 
good enough to indorse that invitation eagerly, and to say 
the old lady’s heart would just be filled with joy if Miss 
Zembra would take her at her word, and go down to see 
her when the opportunity arose. 

Another point that he went back upon again and again 
was the necessity ot Miss Zembra introducing a little more 
amusement into her life. He had notliing to say against 
the self-appointed labors that she had devoted herself to; 
only that she was too assiduous. All work and no play, 
he insisted, was the right thing for no one ; and he ap- 
pealed to Mrs. Wygram. Why should not Miss Zembra 
have gone up to see the Eton vs. Harrow match at Lord’s?— 
for indeed he had been desirous of escorting the whole party 
thither. 

“ But I find my amusement in my work, such as it is,” 
-Sabina said, good-naturedly. “I don’t know that I should 
care to sit and look on at a number of boys knocking a ball 
about. Perhaps I might, though. Young English lads, 
healthy, and well-built, and active, are always nice to look 
at. And that reminds me, I am going down to see my boys 
on the Arethusa and Chichester next Wednesday; it is the 
annual inspection. Now, is not that a sufficient holiday, 
Mr. Foster? And I am going with a clear conscience; I 
shall not have to drag either Mrs. Wygram or Janie with 
me ; Mrs. Tremenheere is going, and I have merely to pick 
her up at Charing Cross Pier. Now, is not that enough of 
a holiday? A pleasant sail down the river, luncheon on 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


121 


board the Arethusa, watching the boys go through their 
drill, presenting the prizes, and then back to town. ’ ’ 

And not only did Mr. Fred Foster express approval, but 
also he ^yas curious to learn further and minute details 
about this projected excursion. What was the institu 
lion ? Who were the managers? Who were likely to be 
there on Wednesday? How were invitations come at? 

“You know,” said he, “if my little arrangement about 
the Leicestershire Cup comes off I shall become a sub- 
scriber.” 

“I think we’d rather have the money now,” Sabina 
said, “ and then you won’t risk losing it.” 

“But it’s out of the profits— if any— that the subscrip 
tion would come,” he then explained. 

Soon, however, he was to be of assistance to her in a 
more immediate way. One evening, about half-past six, 
he strolled along to Kensington Square, on the off-chance 
that she had returned home somewhat before dinner-time; 
a message from the old lady in Buckinghamshire was the 
ostensible excuse for his calling. He had scarcely entered 
the square than he perceived her at the further corner of 
it, coming north; so he leisurely went on to meet her. 

“ Oh, Mr. Foster, I am glad to see you,” she said, in her 
frank way; “I want to see if you can give me some 
help.” 

“ You may be sure I will if I can,” he said, cheerfully. 

“It’s rather a sad story,” she said, plunging into the 
matter at once. “ A poor widow I know has an only son, 
a lad about fifteen, and he has got into trouble. It isn’t 
merely the loss of his wages for the moment— though that 
is something to her— it is his future, and the difficulty of 
getting another situation for him, that is worrying the 
poor woman. This is how it happened : He is employed in 
a livery-stable keeper’s place down in Earl’s Court. He 
had to take a whip into the clerk’s office to leave it there. 
Well, a customer had been paying a bill, and the change 
was two shillings; but he had neglected to pick up the 
change, and he and the clerk came to the door of the office, 
for they were talking together. The boy goes past them 
into the office to leave the whip; he sees tlie florin lying 
on the counter; the temptation is too great — he slips it into 
his pocket. Then the man remembers he has not pfcked 
up his change, turns and finds it gone; the boy is chal- 
lenged, and at once gives up the florin. Well, of course, 
there is no excuse; but of course most people have done 
things they are sorry for; and I am certain this boy has 
nothing of the inborn thief in him — it was a sudden temp- 
tation, and he gave way. There was a talk of prosecution; 
I went to his master, and he consented to stop that, only 


122 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


he insisted on dismissing the lad ; so that there he is now, 
without a situation, and without a character or reference. 
Can you get some kind-hearted man to overlook this one 
slip and give the boy another trial?” 

She had an admirably business-like way of putting a 
case; perhaps she was used to it. As for Fred Foster, he 
paused; had he not alwa3^s been telling her that she 
needed a man’s shrewdness and firmness to assist her-— 
that she was always running the risk of being imposed 
upon? 

“ If I could see the lad,” said he, “I think I could tell by 
the look of him whether his story will wash.” 

“Oh, but he confesses.” 

“Well, I could tell whether I should care to ask some- 
body to give him a fresh start.” 

“Would you mind coming and seeing him now?” she 
said promptly. “His mother lives not ten minutes’ walk 
from here, and he is at home just now, I know.” 

“ But if you are kept late for dinner?” 

“Oh, that is nothing!” she said, cheerfully. “They 
never wait for me; that’s all right.” 

So they set out — she walking at a studiously moderate 
pace ; and he seemed a little proud and pleased to have so 
fair a companion. And how did he entertain her? Well, 
there had been a smoking concert at Mildenhall, in Suf- 
folk, given by certain “bookies” to their friends, wl\o 
were at the Newmarket race meeting; and he had been 
present on this particularly festive occasion ; and he gave 
her a fairly vivid and humorous account of the evening. 
He was very honest; he never sought to conceal anything 
about himself or his companions, and they seemed to have 
been prettj" gay at the White Hart Hotel. In the middle 
of the story Sabina bowed to some one passing, and Mr. 
Foster, raising his hat, as in duty bound, merely glanced at 
the stranger. 

‘ ‘ That is Mr. Lindsay, the artist, whom I have spoken to 
you about,” said Sabina. 

“Oh, indeed,” he said, indifferently. “An odd looking 
creature— gaunt, Avhite-faced, and black-haired —seems to 
have come out of Byron’s poems— those artists always do 
like to look singular.” 

“But you must not say anything like that aboi\t Mr. 
Lindsay,” said Sabina, gently, “for he is a particular 
friend of mine — of ours. ’ ’ 

When they reached the widow woman’s scantily -fur- 
nished lodgings the peccant youth seemed almost paralyzed 
with fear ; he imagined that this appearance of a stranger 
could only mean prosecution, with its unknown horrors. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


Vi‘6 


But Fred Foster speedily reassured him. After a sharp 
scanning of the boy’s face, he said: 

“Look here, my lad, you’ve had a narrow escape, and I 
hope it will be a warning to you all your life. This lady 
has told me the whole story, and I think I can get you a 
situation where you will have a fair , trial— only it will be 
out of town ” 

“Oh, he will not mind that, sir,” the mother interposed, 
quickly, ‘ ‘ if only he can get another chance. Poor lad, he 
feels it awful, sir.” 

“Well, if you mean to keep on the square,” he said, still 
addressing the boy, “I’ll see what I can do. Get your kit 
together, and meet me at Victoria Station to-morrow 
morning at 10.40. Will you remember?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I will take you down to Epsom, and get you a place 
there, where nothing will be known of what has happened. 
The rest is for yourself ; you will have a fair chance of get- 
ting on.” 

“ Yes, sir— thank you, sir.” The boy was too frightened 
to say more. 

“Well, now, that is very kind of you to take so much 
trouble,” Sabina said, when they were come out again. 

“ To go away down to Epsom ” 

“Don’t give me unnecessary credit, MissZembra,” he 
said at once. “ Going down to Epsom never comes amiss 
to me— I can always put in a day* in that quarter, some- 
times to my own advantage. And I will get your stable- 
boy a place easily enough; poor young devil, he seems 
frightened out of his wits. I suppose his mother has been 
nagging at him. What a fearful thing it would be if every - 
thing was to be treasured against us, and no forgiveness 
possible. I don’t mean you,” he added, hastily — “I was 
talking about men. And— and— did I tell you how we 
wound up the evening at Mildenhall?” , 

Sabina thought he had not; and so— he discoursing the 
while on these pretty goings on— they walked equably back 
to Kensington Square. 

It was only a day or two after this occurrence that 
Walter Lindsay happened to meet Janie Wygram, who, 
with her mother, had gone to pay an afternoon call at an 
artist’s house. Wandering about the big studio, as all of 
them did, he had little difficulty in getting the chance of 
saying a few words to Janie by herself. 

“I suppose,” he said, rather diffidently, “that it was 
the Mr. Foster you told me of whom I saw walking with 
Miss Zembra the other day?” 

Janie instantly turned her sympathetic and troubled eyes 
toward him, and then lowered them. 


124 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ I did not know you had seen them,” she said. “ But 
no doubt it was Mr, Foster. Sabie told me had gone with 
lier to see some people she’s interested in. Well, what do 
you think of him?” 

She hoped he would say something bitter and savage. 

“I only caught a moment’s glimpse of him,” he an- 
swered, evasively. ‘‘He goes a good deal to Kensington 
Square?” 

He endeavored to speak in an indifferent way; but Janie 
was not deceived. 

“ Yes, he has been there several times of late ;” and there 
was a little touch of indignation in her tone as she added, 
‘‘ And do you know how he has acquired such an influence 
over Sabie? Well, I’ll tell jmu— it’s his impudence— pure 
impudence. Sabie has never been treated in that free-and- 
easy way before; and she doesn’t understand it, and gets 
bewildered, and thinks there must be something in him be- 
cause he is cool and complacent and masterful toward her. 
And to think that Sabie — a girl like- Sabie— should be im- 
posed upon by pure impudence!” 

But Janie Wygram could scarcely be regarded as a dis- 
passionate judge. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A BETROTHAL. 

Among decorous peopTe it is considered that an unmarried 
young lady should not drive alone in a hansom; bnt Sabina 
was a very busy woman, and besides, she considered her- 
self elderly; so it was in a hansom that on this brilliant 
July morning she drove along to the Charing Cross Pier. 
Almost at the same moment Mrs. Tremenheere arrived in 
lier carriage; and the two ladies went down to the si^ecial 
steamer that was awaiting the party. As they stepped on 
board, the first person to come forward and greet Sabina 
was Mr. Fred Foster. 

Now Mr. Foster, though his sympathies in certain direc- 
tions were distinctly limited, had a good deal of natural 
sagacity ; and instantly he saw— from the look of surprise, 
or more than surprise, in Sabina’s face— that in planning 
this artful little stratagem he had made a mistake. And as 
quickly as he could he made his apology. 

‘‘ I did not know until last night,” he said, ‘‘that I had 
secured an invitation ; for I have been down in Bucking - 
hamshire— my first trip there since— since the little acci- 
dent. And you have told me so much about these train- 
ing-ships, Miss Zembra— I thought it would be a good 
opportunity— I was very glad when I found I was to have 
the chance of seeing them.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


125 


Sabina somewhat formally introduced him to Mrs. 
Tremenheere; and he was very humble and civil in getting 
them seats where the awning would shelter them from the 
sun ; and there was no suggestion in his manner that he 
had come hither with any dark design. Moreover, Sabina 
was not one quick to take offense ; perhaps it was really 
his interest in the Arethusa and the Chichester that had 
prompted his coming; and if so, did not he deserve a little 
encouragement and friendliness? He did not in any way 
whatever seek to thrust his society on the two ladies. But 
he was within call. And as Mrs. Tremenheere was devot- 
ing her whole and rapt attention to the Bishop of Sudbury 
—who was discoursing to her of the iniquity of spending 
money on orchids— Fred Foster came gradually to be 
Sabina’s attendant and companion, when no one else 
claimed her. 

It was a very pleasant sail down the river; flags flying, 
a juvenile brass band playing from time to time in the for- 
ward part of the steamer, the lads on the training-ships 
that they passed giving them a hearty cheer as they 
went by. 

“ If helping in a good work were always as enjoyable as 
this, there would be lots at it. I feel very virtuous in- 
deed,” he remarked, cheerfully. 

“I feel very serious,” was her rejoinder, “ for they 
have fixed on me to give away the prizes ; and though I 
get on very well among the boys when they are by them- 
selves, I don’t like having a lot of spectators looking on.” 

“I wish I could be of any assistance to you,” he said 
(and Mrs. Tremenheere was entirely given over to her 
dear bishop; he could address himself directly, if mod- 
estly and respectfully, to Sabina’s eyes). “I feel myself 
such a useless creature in the world whenever I meet you. 
Ah, I wish you heard my mother speak of you. Miss Zem- 
bra. It was Miss Zembra this and Miss Zembra that, all 
the time I was down. I think she would consent to be ill 
if she thought you would come and tend her a little. She 
was talking about a poor woman— an imaginary woman- 
lying sick and hopeless and friendless; and she said that to 
such a poor creature, when you went into the room, your 
face must appear to be the face of an angel. And she 
hasn’t forgotten your promise to go and see her ” 

Sabina looked up in surprise. 

“Perhaps there wasn’t quite a promise,” he said, 
quickly ; “ but I fancy that in lier case the wish was fathey 
to the thought. Oh, yes; and she has settled upon the 
room that you are to have when you go down— it is a curi- 
ous little box, all by itself; but it overlooks the garden, 
and it is very quiet, and she says you will be so much the 


126 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

better for absolute rest and quiet after your hard work in 
London.” 

‘‘I am sure she is very kind,” Sabina was bound to 
say. 

“ I hadn’t quite such a good time with the pater," her 
companion continued, with a rueful smile. “No, he was 
rather rough on me. He did not thinic much of my 
invention as likely to increase the sum of human happi 
ness.” 

A glance of inquiry asked him to explain. 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Did you not hear of my inven- 
tion?” he said. “ Well, it was in this way. You see, after 
you left Brighton, it was pretty slow down there for me, 
and I had to do a good deal of steady thinking all by my- 
self. And then it was that an idea occurred to me which 
will enable me to go down to the latest ages as a benefactor 
of mankind. You know how awkward it is for a lady, 
when she is riding alone in the country, to mount her horse 
by herself — supposing she has to get down to tighten the 
girths — and there is no stile or gate handy. Well, now, my 
invention is a small ladder of rope, that can easily be folded 
up and fastened to the saddle, and there she is, independ- 
ent ! She has neither to trust herself to the clumsiness of 
some country lout, nor walk along to the nearest cottage 
for the loan of a chair; she can get down or up for herself 
as she pleases. And would you believe it, the pater saw 
nothing in that idea to add to the gayety of nations; and 
when 1 talked to him about Galileo, and Sir Walter Ealeigh, 
and George Stephenson, he used the most reprehensible 
language. Great discoveries are always treated like that. 
It isn’t until after we are dead that the public find out how 
much they owe to us.” 

“I am afraid you try the old gentleman’s patience a 
little?” she said, venturing to look up at him. 

“But what am I to do?” he said. “Begin and work 
some of those farms? I could not make as much out of 
them as the present tenants, and they’re all skating on the 
edge of bankruptcy. He thinks I ought to do something; 
and I want to know what I am to do.” 

“ Are there no beggars at your gate?” Sabina said, gently. 

“There are,” he answered, with cheerful promptitude; 
“and what’s more, there will be beggars all over the place 
if farming doesn’t become more profitable. But don’t say 
anything against me this time. Miss Zembra. Surely I’m 
engaged in a good and charitable work at the present 
moment. I’m actually going down to have luncheon on 
board the Arethusa.” 

And this sardonic self-depreciation of his pleased Sabina 
a good deal more than any affected interest or other hypoc- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


127 


risy ; he seemed to be constantly saying to her, “ Well, I’m 
not much of a fellow, but you are very good-natured — you 
won’t be too hard.” 

A right brave sight was that that met their eyes when 
they reached their destination ; for the yards of the great 
vessel were manned by near a thousand lads and boys ; and 
loud and long was the cheering that greeted the visitors. 
And then, when they had got on board and began to look 
round the ship, it was but natural that Mr. Foster should 
remain with the small party whom he had accompanied on 
the way down; and therefore, when the crowd went below 
for lunch, he assumed the right of attending upon the two 
ladies, and very assiduously and cheerfully did he execute 
the task. Mrs. Tremenheere was rather pleased with the 
young man. And she was interested in him ; for she had 
heard of the accident, and of Sabina’s care of him subse- 
quently. She thought he was rather good-looking, and 
distinctly well-dressed, and if he carried his frankness of 
manner to the verge of a certain cool audacity, she re- 
flected that Sabina and he had been thrown so much into 
each other’s society that now he probably regarded her in 
the light of an old friend. 

After lunch the visitors went on deck again, and the 
business of the day began. Very proud, indeed, was Sabina 
over the smart and seaman-like way in which the lads 
Avent through their drill; and she spied out here and there 
among them a particular favorite of her own ; and what offi- 
cer could check the return glances of recognition ? Of course 
she wore the silver anchor at her neck. And she was as 
pleased at the proficiency of these young sailors as if she had 
trained them all herself; and she was glad that the people 
clapped their hands when something particularly prompt 
was done ; and she made bold to ask Mr. Foster if the coun- 
try should not be grateful to an institution that took the 
neglected boys of London and turned them into fine, smart, 
healthy -looking, bright-eyed fellows, of Avhom England 
might one day be in urgent need. Then came her own 
share in the programme— the distribution of the prizes 
and medals; and as each blushing recipient came forward 
— the best SAvimmer, the most popular boy, the smartest 
lad aloft, and so forth— Sabina managed to say a kindly 
Avord or two to him as she put the prize into his hand or 
pinned the medal on his breast. And, of course, Mr. Fos- 
ter Avas at her side all this time, and perhaps his little un- 
derhand jokes rather tended to give her confidence; any- 
hoAv, her fingers did not tremble much as she pinned on 
tlie medals; and her eyes— that could express approval 
A^erj" Avell, indeed— said as much as her words. 

“Bravo, Johnny; you’ve done it again,” she said to out} 


128 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


of the prize-winners; and she turned to Fred Foster: ‘‘That 
is one of my own boys. ’ ’ 

Indeed, Sabina was so highly pleased with the success of 
the whole of the day’s performance that, when they had 
seen the last of the boat-racing, and were returning to 
town again on board the steamer, she was in a far more 
animated mood than Mr. Foster had ever seen before; and 
she was particularly gracious to himself. He had been her 
companion, in away; he had stood by her through that 
public ceremony ; and now that it was all over, it was 
comfortable to sit here in idleness, and listen to his half- 
facetious comments about men and things. And what 
should hinder him from taking up that same subject he 
had been harping on so much of late and giving it a more 
immediate and personal application ? An early opportunity 
arrived. Mrs. Tremenheere went below to have some tea, 
her bishop accompanying her. Sabina did not care for 
any; she preferred to remain on deck. And then it was 
that Fred Foster renewed his prayer that Sabina should 
not give herself so wholly up to these charitable labors of 
hers — that she should introduce a little amusement into her 
life. 

It was a roundabout way of placing an offer of marriage 
before a young lady; but it was not an unskillful one. 
There was no startling suddenness about it. Sabina found 
herself listening to an argument that seemed to be per- 
vaded by sound common sense. All work and no play, he 
said, was just as bad as all play and no work : the first was 
her case, the second his; wouldn’t it be abetter and whole- 
somer arrangement if he could share her work, and she 
take some part in his amusements? It was quite gradually 
that she came to understand what he meant — that they 
should join their two lives so as to arrive at this fair com- 
promise between pleasure and duty ; and she listened with 
her eyes cast down, and with many rapid fancies running 
through her head. There was not much sentiment ex- 
pressed in this proposal; but then she did not consider her- 
self a sentimental person. Was there not, on the other 
hand, instead of sentiment, a certain reasonableness and 
fitness? More than once she had found herself in need of 
a man’s support and guidance, while (for there was no 
austeritjr in her nature) a little holiday-making now and 
again might gladden life up somewhat. She listened in 
silence, perhaps afraid to understand his meaning too 
clearly; but presently his speech became plain enough. 

“You know my mother went to see you at Brighton, 
Miss Zembra,” he said, and his eyes were fixed on the 
deck, and he spoke in an undertone, for there were many 
people about. “ That was foolish on my part. An embaS' 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


129 


sador is no good. And even here— when I have the chance 
— I can only say bits of things. But I have been thinking 
it over a good deal, and a partnership between us seems 
reasonable; and of course that partnership could only 
mean marriage. I ought to tell you what I think of you ; 
but I can’t praise you to your face; besides, Mrs. Tremen- 
heere may be up again any minute. But I think we might 
have ‘ a real good time, ’ as the Yankees say ; and I should 
be tremendously interested in all you are doing, and lend 
you a hand when there was a chance; and then, when you 
are over- fagged, and deserve a day’s holiday-making, you 
might leave me to engineer that with a fair amount of confi- 
dence. I would live anywhere you liked; I haven’t many 
friends in London; and you don’t seem to go out much; 
when we went pleasuring it would be in the country. 
There’s Goodwood, now; wouldn’t it be fine to get you 
away from those slums and run down to Brighton for a 
week, and get hold of a dog-cart and a stout little cob? 
Tliere’s the matei% too — wouldn’t she welcome you? And 
if you want quiet, that’s the place; and shouldn’t I be 
willing to play good boy then? Sabina — is it to be ‘ Yes?’ ” 

She looked up for a second, timid and hesitating. 

“No,” he said, quickly, “ if you are afraid to say ‘ Yes’ 
on so short a notice, say nothing. Think over it. Will 
you?” 

She nodded slightly, with her eyes still cast down. And 
then he said, eagerly : 

“ But this you must promise— to take no one into your 
confidence. Will you promise to make your decision 
yourself? Oh, I know what will happen if you take ad- 
vice. Your people at Lancaster Gate hate the sight of 
me. I don’t wonder at it, and I don’t resent it. Perhaps 
I shouldn’t myself like having anybody planked in my 
house like that. If you ask them, they will say no; I am 
certain of it; and I don’t see that they take such care of 
you that you should be particular about asking their per- 
mission or advice. And as for the W^ygrams, they would 
say the same thing, for they are very fond of you, and 
they are jealous, and would be angry at any one taking 
you away from them. But never mind that. When it 
was all over I should soon be able to pacify them. Now, 
Avill you promise me so much— that you will form your 
judgment entirely by yourself?” 

She was understood to assent ; he could hardly hear her 
speak. 

“And that you will make it ‘Yes’ if you can?” he 
pleaded. • “ Sabina, that is not too much to ask?” 

‘Whether it was or not was of little consequence, for at 
this moment Mrs. Tremenheere made her appearance on 


130 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


deck, and the bishop, coming along, would insist on cnrry- 
ing Sabina away to have some tea, or something of tlie 
kind. 

Nor did Mr. Foster have another opportunity of speak- 
ing privately with her during the rest of the way up the 
river; but as they were going ashore at Charing Cross, 
where Sabina was to embark in Mrs. Tremenheere's 
barouche, and be driven home that way, he managed to 
say to her : 

“Will you send me a message to-morrow?” 

And as they shook hands at the door of the carriage, she 
said to him, but with averted eyes : 

“Yes; to-morrow.” 

It was not a long time in which to form a decision which 
would affect the whole of her life; and 3’et it cannot be 
said that she spent an agonizing night of doubt and dread. 
For one thing, she was no timid young creature of seven- 
teen, driven out of her wits by the discovery that Charlie 
had stolen unaware into her heart, confronted by the 
awfulness of having to break her promise to poor Toinmy, 
and conscious at the same time of certain secret and pro- 
nounced flirtations with Frank, that had no doubt awak- 
ened certain hopes in his mind, and that it would be re- 
markably difficult to explain away. Nor was there any 
wild passion in the matter. Sabina was twenty-five; she 
had seen too much of the real trouble of the world to care 
about indulging in romantic imaginary woes ; life had been 
serious with her. Perhaps, indeed, a trifle too serious. 
For it was a cheerful prospect, on the whole, that Fred 
Foster had opened out before her. She was to have his 
advice and aid in time of difficulty ; she was to have his 
blithe companionship when they thought fib to snatch a 
holiday. There was a kind of happy-go-lucky self-reliance 
about him which was in itself assuring; he seemed very 
certain that the projected partnership would work well; 
she did no.t think it would be so much amiss if on occasion 
they left overcrowded lanes and alleys for a pleasant drive 
to Goodwood. 

Nor had she any fear about forming a decision for herself; 
for she had for long been accustomed to manage her own 
affairs. And well she knew that he had spoken truth in 
warning her as to the consequences of her seeking counsel 
either from her own people or from the Wy grams. Neither 
the one nor the other knew Fred Foster as she did ; they 
were governed by a violent prejudice against him ; it would 
not be honest advice she would get, but an expression of 
ill-will. And was it not a pity to see this young fellow, 
who had many good qualities about him, left to drift use- 
lessly about the world? His income, she knew, was not 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


131 


very large; indeed, he was almost entirely dependent upon 
his mother; still, it might be better employed than in 
backing horses. Her income and his together would 
enable them to live very comfortably in a moderate way. 
and also permit her to continue her works of charity as well 
as to have a little amusement now and again, according to 
his projected plan. His mother would be kind to her, she 
knew. Altogether, looking at the matter from every pos- 
sible point of view, it not only looked reasonable and prac- 
ticable, but also attractive in many ways ; and as for Fred 
Foster himself, surely it was affection that had prompted his 
offer (for she had no fortune) ; then she liked his frankness, 
and his sardonic self-criticism, and also the quiet audacity 
with which he sought to get the best of everything within 
his reach; and she made no doubt that a man like this who 
was rather given to belittling himself, would in the end 
turn out more trustworthy than a man who was eager to 
show himself off to the best advantage. 

And yet it is no light matter for a young woman to sign 
away the days of her freedom and maidenhood ; and next 
morning the letter that was to deliver Sabina into slavery 
— into partnership he called it —was written many times 
over before she could consider it even passable. And when 
she came down -stairs to breakfast, she was somewhat self- 
conscious, and rather avoided meeting Janie’s eye. 

“Are you tired, Sabie, dear, after your trip to Green- 
hithe?” said Mrs. Wygram, noticing that she was rather 
silent. 

“No, no, not at all,” the girl said, and some slight color 
came unwittingly into the pale, calm, beautiful face. 
“Why, it was a holiday — I think we all enjoyed it very 
much.” 

By and by Sabina had to set forth on the business of the 
day, and this time she was going alone. But before leav- 
ing the house she sought out Janie, and took her into the 
drawing-room, where there was no one but themselves. 
She had her hand on Janie’s arm. 

“Janie, dear, I have a secret to tell you.” 

Her eyes were smiling, her cheeks rose-tinted ; she was 
hesitating and timid — and then she suddenly made a step 
forward and kissed Janie, and put her head close to her 
head. 

“ Janie, be kind to me— don’t be vexed— I— I am engaged 
to be married.” 

Janie withdrew herself from that embrace, her surprise 
was so great. 

“You, Sabie?” she managed to say. “ But— but — to 
whom?” 


m JSABIKA ZEMBRA. 

“To Mr. Foster,” was the answer, giv^en in a kind of 
doubtful tone. 

.“Oh, Sabie, what have you done!” the girl cried, and 
there was anguish in the cry, and her face had grown 
suddenly pale. “ Oh, what have you done, Sabie — when— 
when there was one man in all the world who really 
loved you ” 

Janie had stepped back, white-faced and frightened. 

“ Yes, and you knew it — you knew it— and now you 
have broken his heart!” 

“You must not talk such nonsense,” said Sabina, some- 
what proudly. “And we will not mention the subject 
again until you have come back to your senses.” 

And therewith she turned and went from the room, 
leaving poor Janie entirely overcome; for not only was 
she aware that an awful calamity had occurred— and to 
her beloved Sabie — but also she had quarrelled with her 
nearest and dearest friend. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

PREPARATIONS. 

In these days of strict governance one would hardly ex- 
pect to find in Kensington High Street a well-conducted 
young lady vainly endeavoring to repress her sobs, and 
occasionally and furtively wiping a tear-drop away from her 
wet eyelashes. Yet such was Janie Wygram’s condition 
on this July morning; and she had not quite recovered her 
self-control even when she had got up to Notting Hill. 
But she had grown reckless in this sudden grief that had 
come upon her ; and she longed for consolation— which is 
sometimes to be found m the imparting of news to a faith- 
ful friend; and it was with no hesitation at all that she 
rang the bell of Walter Lindsay’s house and asked if he 
was at home. 

He was at home. He was in the studio, she was in- 
formed. Was he alone? Only a model with him. But 
Janie had lived much among painters; she knew that 
models form the telephonic system of the art world; and 
this communication she had to make to Walter Lindsay 
was not meant for alien ears. So she sent a message to 
him and awaited him in the drawing-room. 

Presently she heard a step, and her heart sunk within 
her. She knew not how to meet him. And even as he 
came forward to greet her— a little surprised he was, but 
certainly pleased by this unexpected visit— she could not 
help thinking, with a heavy heart, that it was this man, 
so distinguished- looking, so generous of nature, so courte- 
ous and gentle in all ways, that Sabina had thrown over 


SABINA Z EM BRA, 


133 


—for whom? She stole another glance at him, and essayed 
to speak, but in vain. Then he noticed that she had been 
crying, and instantly he took her hand again, and his face 
was full of a quick concern, 

“ What is it? What has happened?’’ he said. 

“ I— I came to tell you,” said Janie, striving not to give 
way. ” Sabie— Sabie is engaged to be married.” 

Quite involuntarily he dropped her hand. She did not 
dare to look at his face. Indeed, her eyes were all wet 
and blind; she had enough to do with her own trouble. 

As for him They say that a drowning man sees all 

the backward years at a glance. He seemed to see all his 
future years— stretching on and on— gray, barren, hope- 
less. solitary. That was but for a moment. 

“I suppose— it is— to that Mr. Foster?” he said, in a 
voice that was apparently quite calm. 

“Oh, yes,” said Janie, in a half hysterical fashion, 
“And I have been afraid of it all along! They were al- 
ways together at Brighton — I heard it from mother — and 
Sabie is so strange— she lets herself be talked over — espe- 
ciallj^ if you ask anything from her — and I suppose that — 
that contemptible horse-jockey has appealed to her sym- 
pathy, and she has taken pity on him.” 

“ Janie,” Walter Lindsay said, gravely, -“ don’t you think 
it would be wiser if you tried to make the best of what has 
happened?” 

‘ ‘ But it was you I wanted her to marry, if ever she mar- 
ried a ny one, ’ ’ Janie broke out afresh. “ We all wanted it. 
If Sabie had only done that ” 

“ But what is the use of speaking of it?” he gently re- 
monstrated — and she was so much occupied with her own 
sorrow that she did not notice how gray his face had be- 
come all this while, how haunted and absent his eyes. 
“ You know that was never possible.” 

“ No, I suppose it was not,” she said, in a kind of despair. 
“ I suppose it was never possible. You were too well off; 
too happy; and— and— and everyone making much of you. 
She used alwa^^s to talk of you as being so fortunate, hav- 
ing such a great career before you. It was always work 
she thought of; she never let sentiment, affection, come in 
—unless it was about poor people. Yes,” added Janie, bit- 
terly, “you were always too well off for Sabie. But if 
you had been a miserable, insignificant, conceited, con- 
temptible creature, like this horse- jockey ’ ’ 

“Janie,” he said, with a touch of authority, “ you are 
acting very foolishly. You are letting your disappointment 
become a craze; and it will be all the more difficult for you 
to remain on good terms with Mr. Foster if you nurse this 
silly anger against him.” 


184 


ZEMBRA. 


“ On good terms with him?” she said, scornfully. 

“ For Sabina’s— for Miss Zembra’s sake.” 

“ But Sabie has gone away from me now!” Janie cried. 
“Sabie, who was my friend ” 

‘‘She is your friend,” he said quietly. ‘‘ Now, sit down 
and tell me how all this came about, and how you heard of 
it.” 

Janie sat down obediently; but how was she to tell him 
of the arguments and persuasions that Fred Foster had 
used in winning over Sabina? Janie knew nothing of all 
these ; but she had formed her own theories and guesses, 
and it was these that she now placed before him, Walter 
Lindsay in vain endeavoring to mitigate the malice of her 
insinuations. And as for Foster’s motives in seeking to 
make Sabina his wife, she could make them out too. Sa- 
bina was a very pretty woman; and, for a year or two, 
until he got tired of her, she would do him credit when he 
drove her to a race-courfse. Then there was her three hun- 
dred pounds a year. Sabina, Janie explained, was very 
frank in discussing her financial position, when charitable 
projects were being considered ; of course, Mr. Foster must 
have learned what her allowance from her father was. 
And would not the three hundred pounds be a handy addi- 
tion to his income, and enable him to bet a little more on 
horses and greyhounds? Besides that (Janie contended) he 
was of course expecting a rich man like Sir Anthony Zem- 
bra to give his daughter a handsome marriage portion. 
Where would that go? In gambling, of course. And then? 
Poor Sabie! 

‘‘ No, no, no!” he said, ” I will not hear anything of the 
kind. These are only Cassandra prophecies. Depend upon 
it, a woman like Miss Zembra could not make such a mis- 
take in her choice; there must be something finer and bet- 
ter than that in him; remember, she knows so much more 
about him than you do. And you are going to be recon- 
ciled to him— that is what you have got to do; and both 
you and I, whatever happens, will remain Miss Zembra's 
fast friends ; and I, for one, I — I wish her a very happy 
marriage!” 

She raised her eyes to his face. There was not much 
gayety there, but a serious wistfulness, rather; and his 
look, which was directed to the window, was thoughtful 
and absent. And for the life of her— regarding him thus— 
she could not help repeating what she had said before as to 
what she had sketched out as Sabina’s future. 

‘‘No, T think none of us were aniious that Sabie should 
marry ; she was so good and perfect and beautiful that we 
all wished to have a share in her, and to have a little of her 
kindness and attention; but if she was to marry it shouid 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 135 

have been you; indeed, indeed, that would have reconciled 
us all to it. ” 

“ But it is of no use talking of that now,” said he, gently 
putting away the subject. ‘‘No, dear Miss Janie, what 
you liave to do now is to think of what is best for her. As 
for me, I don’t pity myself overmuch. Surely no harm 
can come to anyone through having known a good woman. 
Anything more than her friendship was never possible, but 
I had that for a time, and I will remember it all my life, I 
hope. Now, give me your promise.” 

“What?” 

“That you will do everything you can for Miss Zembra, 
and, as the first thing, that you will receive her future 
husband as she would like to have him received.” 

“ No, I can’t promise that,” she said, stubbornly. 

“And what is the value, then, of your affection for your 
Sabie, as you call her?” 

“ You ask too much — you ask too much!” she exclaimed ; 
and the tears were like to come into her eyes again ; but 
she rose, as if to go away. And then she said, reluctantly, 
“Well, I — I know what you say is right. It isn’t every- 
body who is so unselfish as you. Perhaps, some time 
later on, I will tr}^; and I hope what you say will come 
true, and that there is a chance of Sabie’ s being happy. 
But I should have been happier if she had made another 
choice.” 

“Remember,” he said to her at the door, and as she 
turned to him for a moment she thought there was some- 
thing in the grave, sad face she had never seen there 
before, an inexpressible gentleness and tenderness, as it 
were — “remember,” he said, as his last word to her, 
“that you are Miss Zembra’s friend, and may be of great 
help to her. There are some who would be proud to be in 
that position.” 

Well, if Sabina, at this crisis of her life, was to have the 
good-will and aid and sympathy of her friends, it was 
more than she was likely to receive from her relatives. 
Of course, she said to Fred Foster, she must go and tell her 
father of her engagement. 

“As for that,” remarked Mr. Foster, in his cheerful 
manner, “ if there’s going to be any kind of a row, you’d 
better let me do it. Oh, I don’t mind. I have an impres- 
sion that your father isn’t very fond of me, and if he wants 
to say so, or to say anything nasty about our engagement, 
I am willing to stand the racket. Bless you, it's wonderful 
how little words can hurt you, if you look at them the 
right way. They’re only air; air can’t hurt you. I’ve 
seen a woman’s lips turn white because of a little remark 
addressed to her. It would need some particularly pene- 


m 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


trating patent gas-tight remarks to make my lips turn 
white. Oh, I shouldn’t mind in the least.” 

“I hope there won’t he any trouble,” Sabina said. 
“ They’ve always left me to act for myself. But if there 
should be any objection— or— or misapprehension— I am 
sure that I shall be able to talk more gently than you 
would.” 

“ Oh, I don’t believe in gentle speaking,” said he, cheer- 
fully. “ Plain speaking is ever so much better. Besides, 
there may be a few little business arrangements to talk 
over; you’d better let me go.” 

Sabina laughed. 

“ Are we to have a quarrel already?” she asked. “ It is 
true I have been living separate from my family for some 
time, and they let me go my own way; but don’t you think 
it would look a little bit queer if I were to send a third 
person to tell my father that his daughter was going to be 
married?” 

“Do as you like, then, Sabie,” said he, in his off-hand 
way. “But I think I should have made a better job of 
it.” 

That same afternoon Sabina went along to the Walde- 
grave Club. It was with her father alone, she considered, 
not with the other members of the family, that she had to 
deal; and she knew when she would most likely find him 
at his club— a little before question time at the House. The 
hall porter at the Waldegrave recognized her at once, for 
she had often called there ; he asked her to step within and 
take a seat, while he sent a page-boy for Sir Anthony ; and 
so it was that Sabina found herself awaiting her father in 
this great hall, that looked so quiet and clean and cool 
after the din and dust of the hot London streets. 

Sir Anthony came along in his most majestic manner, 
serene, complacent, looking all round the hall for some one 
to favor with a distant nod. When he reached Sabina, he 
plumped himself down beside her on the softly cushioned 
seat. 

“Well, Small- pox,” he said (for he was a desperately 
witty person on occasion), “what do you want now?” 

“Do you remember Mr. Foster, papa?” 

“Foster,” he said, with a sudden coldness. “Do you 
mean the young man who was good enough to confer his 
society on us for a considerable period— a very consider- 
able period?” 

“ But it was through no fault or wish of his own, papa,” 
she pleaded. “ Why do you speak of him like that? It 
is such a pity you should have formed a prejudice against 
him.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


137 


“We’re rid of him now, anyway; and I wish to hear no 
more about him,” he said, shortly. 

” But it is about him I came to see you,” she said. 

“Oh! He is in the hospital still, I suppose, and you 
want to raise a subscription for him when he comes out. 
Is that it? Well, you needn’t come to me; I will not give 
you a shilling— no, nor a penny.” 

“Papa, he is a gentleman,” she said, rather incoherently. 
“ And please don’t talk of him like that. I — I am engaged 
to be married to him.” 

He stared at her in dumb surprise. Was the girl mad? 
And then, when he had become convinced of the truth of 
the few Avords she had just spoken, he broke into no vio- 
lent explosion (how could he, in the hall of the Walde- 
grave Club?) ; rather, he affected to treat the news with 
much respect. 

“Really, Sabina, I am very much obliged to you,” he 
said (though the look in his eyes Avas scarcely in conso- 
nance with the extreme suavity of his voice). “ Your con- 
sideration for us all is most kind. You can’t imagine what 
a relief aviII be felt at home. For, of course, knowing your 
Avays, Ave had been expecting you to choose, at the high- 
est, a costermonger for your husband ; and Ave had been 
looking foi’Avard to a visit from you all — the char-Avoman, 
his mother, his brother, the prize-fighter and his sister — 
Avell, anything; and Ave should have had altogether a nice 
family party. But this is a much better arrangement — 
quite a bound up the social ladder. Let’s see, what is his 
profession?” 

“Papa, you are not very kind to me,” she said, Avith a 
slight quiver of the lips. 

But at this moment Sir Anthony Zembra’s face became 
all beams and smiles. A very distinguished and famous 
statesman had just come out of the reading-room, and as 
he passed he nodded and said: 

“ Hoav are you. Sir Anthony?” 

And Sir Anthony, Avith the most Avinning expression, 
made haste to answer: 

“ How do you do! how do you do!” for AvhoknoAvs when 
one may Avish to haA’^e the faAmr of a dispenser of office? 

However, at the same moment the remarkably keen eyes 
of the great man had caught sight of Sabina, and he 
stopped; for he Avas known to be very partial to pretty 
young ladies, Avhom he treated Avith an Old-Avorld courtesy 
that Avas very pleasant to look upon. 

“ Miss Zembra, I think?” 

Sabina rose as in duty bound. 

“We don’t meet very often,” said the old gentleman, 
and he boAved over the hand that Sabina timidly extended 


rss 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


to him, “but I hear of you from time to time through 
Mrs. Tremenheere. Yes, I hear of your goodness. But 
mind you take care of yourself, my dear — we can’t afford 
to lose any such as you.” 

He patted her hand and said “ Good-bye,” and went on 
his way. Sabina sat down again; Sir Anthony’s face 
instantly resumed its former expression of perfectly im- 
placable coldness and firmness. 

“Well, now that you have given me the information, 
Avhat more?” he said. 

“ Have you nothing to say to me, papa?” she answered, 
with an appealing look. 

“ Oh, I wish you joy, if that is what you mean,” he said, 
calmly. “ I wush you joy — without any sarcasm. Marry- 
ing a man you don’t know ” 

“But I do know him — everything about him,” she said. 
“ And I know his people — and his mother has promised to 
be very kind to me.” 

“More than my own relatives seem likely to be,” she 
might have added ; but she did not want to make mischief. 

“ Oh, his mother has promised to be very kind to you. 
Has she offered to support you?” 

“ I hardly know what you mean,” she said, rather be- 
wdldered. 

“ Only that I don’t see that I am called upon to support 
another man’s wife,” he continued. “ You take this step 
without the slightest consultation with your family. You 
did not consult them, probably because you knew it would 
be against their wishes. Very well. It’s a free countiw. 
You may go your own way. But as you make your bed 
you must lie on it. You don’t suppose that I am going to 
support you and this man who has no claim upon me what- 
ever, unless unbounded impudence be a claim.” 

“ My husband will be able to support me,” said Sabina, 
proudly — but imprudently, for his eyes darkened a little. 

“Very well,” he said, in the same impassive way. 
“ We’ll see how it turns out. But mind, I never do any- 
thing out of anger. I will make you a certain allowance, 
so that you shall not have to fear starvation. I think that 
is my duty. What the amount will be I will consider later 
on.” 

“ Papa, I did not come here to ask you for money !” 

“No? Then I suppose you came merely to impart the 
agreeable news. Well, having done so, is there anything 
more to be said? I must be off to the house.” 

She knew not what to say. She had expected that he 
would be annoyed, and that she might have some trouble 
in talking him over; she had not expected to be confronted 
with this stony and stolid indifference. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 139 

“ Won’t you come to the wedding?” she said, in despera- 
tion. 

He lifted his eyebrows in affected surprise. 

” Come to the wedding? No, I think not. What could 
put that into your liead? Of course you are quite aware 
that if you are really bent on this folly— if you are deter- 
mined to throw yourself away on this man — then I must 
decline to have either him or you come near my house. I 
don’t wish to make any fuss. You are a grown, woman ; 
you are able to judge for yourself ; I only wish to let you 
know clearly what will be the consequences of this freak 
of yours.” 

She rose; her lips were proud and firm. 

“Yes, I understand,” she said; and she bade good bye 
to him, without offering her hand, and turned and went 
away, and got into the cab that was awaiting her, and 
drove home. 

And how eagerly and impatiently she waited for Fred 
Foster, who ^vas to come to see her that evening! 

‘‘Oh, Fred,” she said, piteously (Janie had retired from 
the drawing-room), ” it was dreadful!” 

1 knew it would be.” he said, laughing. ‘‘All the fat 
in the fire, no doubt. You’d much better have let me man- 
age the business.” 

“I suppose a girl should never say anything against her 
father,” poor Sabie continued (rather clinging to him a 
little, as if for sympathy), ‘‘ but he was like a stone — if it 
had been mere anger, I shouldn’t have minded so much.” 

‘‘ It will blow over,” he said, carelessly. ” They’re often 
like that, those inconvenient papas. But they always come 
round in the end, especiallj’’ if there’s ” 

‘‘ If there’s a baby,” he was on the point of saying, but 
luckily stopped in time. 

‘‘ And about the money— he seemed to think I had come 
to ask him for money!” she continued. 

“ Yes, I told you you’d better have left me to manage 
it, ” he answered, coolly. ‘‘But it’s all right, Sabie-r-it will 
be all right in the end, never you fear.” 

‘‘ But will you do this for me?” she said, at once timidly 
and eagerly. ‘‘ You know my father said he would make 
me an allowance — but you can’t tell how it was offered — 
well, now, if I could only say to him, ‘ No, thank you, my 
husband can support me, ’ don’t you see how proud I should 
be? I don’t want to do it out of anger or revenge— but to 
justify you, and to show him that the cruel things he said 
were quite uncalled for. Do you think we could afford to 
refuse that allowance? I know it would make a great dif- 
ference to me —I mean it would be so much more difficult 


140 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


to look after any of those poor people ; but we might pinch 
a little— I could, in lots of things; I would try hard.” 

“My dear child,” he said, good-naturedly, “you’re suf- 
fering from a fit of heroics. Your sensitive soul has been 
wounded. No doubt you and I could live on my income, 
with prudence and a frugal and contented mind ; but most 
assuredly you would have no margin for your tribe of de- 
pendents. No, no, Sabie, don’t be angry with .your poor 
father. He’ll come round. He did not mean the half of 
what he said — they never do; but it sounds well, and gives 
them importance for the moment.” 

“ It was for 3"our sake,” she said, hesitatingly. 

“ But, you see, I haven’t a sensitive soul. We couldn’t 
afford to run two in the same establishment. I care as 
little what the good papa thinks of me as he does of what 
I think of him. No, no; the wise thing to do is to take 
what we can get, and to hope for more; and I dare say we 
shall do very well, somehow or other. And don’t be too 
down-hearted about the Herr Papa; I tell you it’s wonder- 
ful how much more people say than they mean.” 

There was a tapping at the door ; a maid - servant 
announced to them that the rest of the household were 
awaiting them at supper, and Sabina’s proud project of 
renunciation was at an end. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

A WEDDING. 

It was a summer night at Brighton. The tall house- 
fronts were gray and wan against the crimson and yellow 
still lingering in the northwestern heavens; but far away 
over the sea, to the southeast, there dwelt a golden moon 
in a sky of pale rose-purple; and the moonlight that fell on 
the wide waters was soft and shimmering, until it gleamed 
sharp and vivid where the ripples broke on the beach. 
Here and there the stars of the gas -lamps began to tell in 
the twilight. There was a faint murmur of talking; young 
girls in white summer costumes went by with laughter and 
jest; there was an open window, and somebody within a 
brilliantly lit drawing-room was singing— in a voice not 
very loud, but still audible to such of the passers-by as hap- 
pened to pause and listen — an old Silesian air. It was 
about a lover, and a broken ring, and the sound of a mill- 
wheel. 

Walter Lindsay was among these casual listeners- -for a 
minute or two; and then he went on, with some curious 
fancies in his head. Not that any young maiden had de- 
ceived him ; or that he was particularly anxious to find 
rest in the grave ; for this is the latter half of the nine- 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


141 


teenth century; and he, as well as others, knew that 
Wertherism was now considered ridiculous. But somehow 
London had become intolerable to him, and he could not 
work; and— well, Brighton was the nearest place to get 
away to while one was considering further plans. It was 
a little lonely, it is true; especially on these summer even- 
ings, when all the world seemed, as it were, to be mur- 
muring in happiness. Over there was the Chian Pier. A 
few golden points — gas-lamps — glimmered on it; and be- 
yond it there was a small boat, the sail of which caught 
the last dusky-red light from the sunset, and looked 
ghostly on the darkening plain. In that direction peace 
seemed to lie. He began to think that if he passed away 
from this laughing and murmuring crowd, and went out 
to the end of the pier, and quietly slipped down into the 
placid waters, the world would be none Uie worse for want 
of him, and a good deal of heart-sickness would come to 
an end. He did not really contemplate suicide; it was a 
mere fancy. Killing one’s self for love is not known now- 
adays, except among clerks and shop-lads; and then it is 
generally prefaced by cutting a young woman’s throat, 
which is unpleasant. No, it was a mere fancy that 
haunted him, and not in a too mourn Eul fashion. 

He thought of the people who would decide that it was 
at such and such a moment that he must have flung him- 
self into the sea, from the fact of his watch having stopped 
then; and he knew that they would be in error, because 
of course the water does not instantly get into the inside 
of a watch. He remembered the story of the impecunious 
reporter who wrote, “ Sevenpence-half-penny having been 
found in the pockets of the deceased, no motive could be 
assigned for the rash act;” and he wondered whether, he 
having several sovereigns in his pocket, it would be as- 
sumed that this was not suicide at all. But these were 
but idle dreams and'reveries; because he knew that this 
dull, continuous, insatiable heartache in time would cease 
— or, at least, he hoped so; and, besides that, he thought 
he would like in the coming years to be kind to Sabina’s 
children. 

There were so many young women coming along this 
Marine Parade, some sedately walking with their mam- 
mas; some giggling witli their companions; some aim- 
lessly alone and silent; why was it that none of them had 
any interest for liim at all, and that his heart was far 
away in London? In the distance, sometimes, he saw a 
tall figure ; and a sharp spasm of wonder would seize him ; 
might not this be some one like Sabina— with something 
of the inexpressible magic and charm of Sabina’s presence, 
with something of Sabina’s look in her eyes, with the 


SABINA MEMBRA. 


m 

proud set of her head, and her fearless gait? Then liie 
voung lady would draw near— perhaps graceful, and good- 
looking, and gentle-looking enougli, and no doubt a most 
charming and accomplished and praiseworthy young per 
son; but the first swift glance that told him it was not Sa- 
bina herself was sufficient; she went by unheeded. Of 
course all this was the sheer perversity of foolish senti- 
ment; and he knew it; and he walked back to the Bedford 
Hotel declaring to himself that love was the most idiotic 
thing in the world (and rightly laughed at by all sensible 
people), and that what he was really concerned about was 
the size of the canvas on which he was to attempt a pict- 
ure of the Shannon rapids at Killaloe. 

On reaching the hotel he found awaiting him there a 
letter from his faithful friend and correspondent, Janie 
Wygram, who had promised to let him know how things 
were going on. 

“Dear Mr. Lindsay” (she wrote), — “I have tried to 
do as you said ; and it has not been quite so hard as I ex- 
pected ; for I do think he is really fond of Sabie— in a care- 
less way; and that he is good matured when everything is 
done to please him. But sometimes — well, you will say I 
am prejudiced, but I must tell the truth— sometimes he 
vexes me terribly. Why, be seems to think it is all a 
piece of fun — a frolic! Fancy any one marrying our 
Sabie as if it was part of a Bank Holiday excursion 1 He 
doesn’t in the least understand what a prize he has won, 
or the favor she has shown him; it’s all a free-and-easy 
give-and-take with him; indeed, I am not sure that he 
doesn’t consider she is the one who ought to be smiling 
and grateful. I know he has a pretty good opinion of him- 
self, anyway; and you understand how generous Sabie is; 
she always makes the most of everybody; and of course, 
after what you said, I’m not going to rnake her discon- 
tented or pick out defects. 

“ But fancy having to write like this about Sabie’s lover I 
I don’t think I ever did really want her to marry anybody ; 
but many a time, in reading poetry, I have thought that if 
ever Sabie had a sweetheart, it would be a beautiful sight 
to see, and just like the wonderful pictures of the poets. 
Many a time I have thought of her as Rosalind putting the 
chain round Orlando’s neck and wishing him Avell in the 
wrestling; for giving is Sabie’s natural attitude, I think. 
But it is no use talking, and I won’t say how very, very 
different from these romantic pictures is the present situa- 
tion ; for you are quite right about making the best of it, 
for her sake; and you may be sure of this, that however 
any one else may choose to behave or make light of his 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


143 


great good fortune, which he doesn't understand a hit, 
Sabie remains herself, as distinguished and refined and 
gentle and beautiful as ever, and just goodness itself. 
Mother says I am mad about her. I wonder what she is? 
However, if I am, I don’t care who knows it; I am proud 
of it; and if people only knew Sabie as intimately as I do, 
they wouldn’t be much surprised, I think.” 

He laid down the letter for a moment. He saw clearly 
the situation she described, despite the cunning with which 
she affected to be saying smooth things. And was this the 
predicament in which Sabina had placed herself? He 
could not believe it. Janie Wygram was only half con- 
cealing the violence of her prejudice. She took Fred Fos- 
ter’s cheerfulness— in itself an admirable quality— for in- 
difference. Perhaps she was disappointed that these two 
betrothed people did not show her a little more of the ro- 
mance of an engagement; he was not disappointed that 
Sabina should refuse to bill and coo for the edification of 
bystanders. 

“I hope there will be no trouble in the future,” the 
letter went on, ” but I want you to understand that Sabie's 
father has behaved like a monster. They may say what 
they like about him in the papers; but certain I am that 
he has not the heart of a human being. He came here the 
day before yesterday (the first time he has honored our 
house with his presence since Sabie came to live with us) 
and made a settlement of everything. That is to say, he 
never asked Sabie if she was still of the same mind ; there 
was no quarreling, or even remonstrance, on his part— for 
he is far too selfish and cold and hard a man to take so 
much trouble about anybody; and then he told her what 
he meant to do. She is to have one hundred pounds for 
her wedding outfit; and afterward he will allow her one 
hundred and fifty pounds a year, to keep her from 
starvation, as he says: but he won’t allow either her or her 
husband ever to come near his house. Sabie did not break 
down at all ; she is too proud ; indeed, the cruel thing is 
that Mr. Foster would not allow her to refuse the allowance 
altogether, which she wanted to do. Of course, he took it 
in his chirrupy way. He says it will be all right; and that 
after the marriage her father will relent. But she says he 
will do nothing of the kind ; and she knows him better than 
Mr. Foster does. Fancy such meanness — to his eldest 
daughter; and that they should be forever praising him in 
the papers for his public spirit and his benevolence. But 
what he gives to Saoie isn’t printed in a list of subscriptions ; 
I suppose that is it. 


144 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


friend in Mr. Foster's mother ! The old people came to 
town the other day; and Mrs. Foster was very, very nice 
and affectionate. Matters don’t go smoothly between 
father and son, I imagine; but of course I wasn’t al- 
lowed to hear too much ; and perhaps now that he is to 
marry and settle down there will be greater harmony. 
Sabie will be the peace-maker; surely, if they can with- 
stand the sweetness of her disposition they are made of 
sterner stuff than some people I know. I do wish she had 
some other kind of a father than that cruel old beast. Sir 
Anthony; just fancy the thousands and thousands he has; 
and he must needs cut down the girl’s allowance by one 
hundred and fifty pounds just because he dislikes the man 
she is going to marry. Why, he might be proud to know 
that he has such a daughter; but there is none of his 
nature in Sabie; she must have got all her goodness and 
honor and generousness from her mother. If I were a 
writer in the papers wouldn’t T give it him! I’d show 
the public what a monster of meanness and h^’pocrisy 
he is; why, I believe he is glad that Sabie is going to 
jnarry against hjs wishes, for it will save him one hundred 
and fifty pounds a year. 

“Dear Mr. Lindsay, tell me if I bother you writing to 
you about Sabie. I can’t talk to her as I used to. He has 
come between us ; and she has other interests ; and although 
she is as kind as ever, still this other future that is now 
coming near must engage all her attention. If only her 
heart had been placed elsewhere, I should not have repined : 
no, I should have rejoiced; and I should have borne with- 
out a murmur a good deal of coldness or indifference on 
her part, if I saw that her affections were Avholly centered 
on one worthy -of them. Never mind; Sabie will always 
be dear Sabie to me, whoever claims her; and if there 
should be a time of trouble she won’t want for one friend 
at least. 

“The marriage is to be soon (because the chirrupy man 
thinks it’s all a kind of gay pastime, I suppose), and I am to 
be the only bridemaid. After that is over, Sabie will have 
just as much of my friendship as she asks for; I am not 
going to intrude. Please forgive me for sending you so 
long a letter; I thought you might like to know how mat- 
ters stand. And I hope everything will turn out weh; but 
sometimes I am a little miserable— perhaps needlessly. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Janie Wygram. 

“P. S.— Would you mind sending Sabie a little message 
of congratulation? or is that asking too much?” 

A message of congratulation?— yes, and more. He put 
on his hat again and went out. The summer night was 


SABINA Z EM BRA. 


145 


cool; it was pleasant to pass along through the light- 
hearted, murmuring crowd. By this time the skies had 
darkened into a clear rich violet ; the moon was shining 
with its fullest radiance; the sea broke in sharp ripples of 
gold along the shingle; the shadows of the people were 
black on the wan gray pavements. What was he to do for 
Sabina? That, at least, was something more comforting to 
think of than the vague heartsickness of renunciation. 

And very wild some of these first projects were. He 
thought of settling his little patrimony in Gallowayshire 
on her, for her sole and exclusive use; of selling his studio 
and all its appurtenances, and then of “ taking the world 
for his pillow,” as the Gaelic stories say, when the hero 
sets forth on his adventures. For he wished to get away 
from England somehow. And in thinking that he would 
be more content if the wide Atlantic were the barrier be- 
tween him and Kensington High Street and Kensington 
Square, he was facing no foolish risk. His work was well 
known in art circles in America; several American artists 
were among his familiar friends; he was already a member 
of the Tile and Kinsman Clubs; the far Western land 
would in time come to be his home. And if he achieved 
fame there, might not Sabina occasional 1 3^ hear of him? 
And if, after many years, he had amassed a little mone^^, 
well, there was a -vision before him of an elderly, white- 
haired man returning to his native country, and perhaps 
finding a young Sabina there — a Sabina in all ways like her 
mother, but with her face bright with youth and hope, 
and her chestnut-brown hair as yet unstreaked with gray 
— who might be his companion on an afternoon stroll or so, 
and introduce him to the young man she favored, and ac- 
cept a little dowry from her mother’s friend of former 
days. These were far-reaching dreams; but at least they 
were not very selfish. 

In the meantime, that forsaking of his native land had 
to be postponed, for the most singular of all reasons— Sa- 
bina’s marriage. Janie came to him one evening after he 
had returned to London, and diffidently and almost shame- 
facedly preferred her humble prayer. Sable’s relatives, 
she said, would have nothing to do with her; surely the few 
friends she had ought to stand hy her. Lindsay looked at 
her for a second in his grave and thoughtful wa3^ 

“Do you think,” said he, rather slowly, “do you think 
Miss Zenibra would like it?” 

“Why don’t you call her Sabie?” the girl cried, pite- 
ously. “Yes, yes, indeed she would! She asked me. 
Oh, I don’t know whether she suspects ther6 is any— any 
reason why you might refuse— how could I speak of that 
without saying too much ” 


U6 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“And it is not to be spoken of any more,” said he, 
gently. “ That is all past now. Yes, I will come to the 
wedding. I was thinking of going to America, but I will 
put that off. And in the meantime. Miss Janie, I wish you 
would help me to decide on a present for her. There are 
two or three things I have been thinking of. There is a 
dessert service in old Worcester that my mother was proud 
of. It’s in Scotland.” 

“Oh, Mr. Lindsay, you wouldn’t give away an heirloom, 
like that!” Janie cried. 

“I know where there is a very handsome set of things 
for the dinner-table, in Venetian glass, that ought to do,” 
he said, absently. “ But I will hunt about, and perhaps 
get something more unusual.” 

It was a fair autumn morning that saw Sabina wedded. 
Janie was the only bridemaid. When, after the cere- 
mony, the beautiful, smiling, fair-haired bride came v^’alk- 
ing down the aisle on the arm of her husband, there was a 
little murmur of approval among the old women and girls 
who had wandered into the church. Tlie smile that was 
on her face was one of greeting; for she had caught sight 
of Walter Lindsay (whom she had not seen for a long 
while), and she paused for a second to give him her hand. 
He murmured something about “happiness,” and they 
passed on. 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Wygram,” he said, at the church door. 

“ But you are coming home with us!” the old lady said. 

“ No, I think not,” he answered. 

“Oh, but Sabie particularly wished you should. We 
were counting up last night how many friends she had who 
would take the trouble to come to the wedding —oh, indeed 
you must go back to the house. I thought Janie had ar- 
ranged it with you!” 

Well, he went; and found a very merry little party as- 
sembled in the familiar old faded drawing-room in Ken- 
sington Square. The happy bridegroom, very smartly 
dressed, and apparently quite recovered from his lingering 
lameness, was radiant, facetious, good-humored to a de- 
gree; the bride (to use the faithful Janie’s not ver> orig- 
inal phrase) looked more like an angel than ever. If she 
looked like an angel she acted like a woman; for she sin- 
gled out Walter Lindsay for the most especial and obvious 
kindness; and tore herself away from her sympathizing 
feminine friends to talk to him, and to talk to him alone; 
and she was so anxious to know all about his future plans 
and projects. 

“ But you don’t mean to remain in America?” she said, 
and her eyes were more frank and direct than his. 

“Oh, yes, I think so,” he answered. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 147 

“Why?” she asked, in her straightforward way. He 
hesitated for a moment, and then said, with a laugh : 

“ Don’t you know that picture buying is a lost art in this 
country? I want to see if there is a market for my wares 
on the other side. That will take a long time.” 

“You will come back to your friends,” she said, quietly. 

When at last the moment arrived for her going away, 
the usual little crowd followed her to the front door, and 
there was the customary throwing of rice and old slippers. 
Janie was standing on the steps alongside Walter Lindsay, 
and bravely endeavoring to restrain her tears. Just as the 
door of the brougham was snapped to, he heard her ex- 
claim to herself, “ Sabie!”— and she put out her hand as if 
even now she would have entreated her friend to come 
back. It was a curious, involuntary little gesture; the 
stifled cry that accompanied it was almost a cry of an- 
guish. 

About a week after that, Walter Lindsay sailed from 
Liverpool for New York. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A HONEYMOON VISIT. 

The newly- wedded couple went down to Boscastle on the 
Cornish coast. Now, Boscastle is a picturesque little place, 
but the occupations it affords are scanty; and in a very 
short time Mr. Fred Foster began to find the afternoon 
hanging rather heavily on his hands. Not that he was at 
all a dull companion. He had seen a good deal of life, was 
a shrewd judge of character, and could describe people in 
a semi facetious vein that was at least meant to be amusing. 
Why, one whole morning — these two walking the while 
along the high Downs overlooking the western sea— he en- 
tertained her with an account of the various modes of con- 
cealing their emotion adopted by certain noble sportsmen 
while looking on at a race in which they were interested: 
how the Duke of Belvoir invariably found something 
wrong with the working of his field-glass; how Lord 
Cranesfoot seized the moment for selecting a big cigar, 
proceeding to chew the same without taking the trouble to 
light it; how Mr. De Gotlheimer (no matter how pale his 
features might be) would affect to care nothing at all 
about the race, but ratlier to be surprised at the excite- 
ment of the roaring crowd around him, and so forth. 
Nevertheless, these walks along the Downs, and along the 
country lanes, and out by the little harbor to the hill fac- 
ing the Atlantic, became a little monotonous, and Fred 
Foster was a frank -spoken person. 

“Dame Durden,” said he, in his playful fashion, “listen 


148 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


to me. I suppose it wouldn’t be quite according to the cor- 
rect card to ask a young lady on her wedding- trip to visit 
her mother-in-law, would it? Beginning too soon, eh, to 
face the trials of life?” 

“ I will go with pleasure,” Sabina said, promptly. 

“You don’t mean that?” 

“Ido.” 

“ Then we’ll be off to-morrow morning.” 

This resolve seemed to bring quite a new cheerfulness 
and liveliness into the atmosphere, and that evening at 
dinner he said: 

“You know, Sabie, I wouldn’t have made the sugges- 
tion if the mater was like any one else; but she’s just as 
good as gold, and she’ll be aAvf ully proud to see you. In- 
deed, there are several reasons why it will be a very good 
move. We shall be there by the first, and I dare say I 
shall be able to pick up a few birds. But that’s not the 
chief thing; the chief thing is this— that I want you to set 
seriously to workoand make a poor thing of mj^ pa.” 

She looked up inquiringly. 

“Oh, you can do it,” he said, with an air of sarcastic 
approval. “You are a first-class performer, when you 
like, for all your innocent eyes ” 

“ But what do you mean?” she said. 

“Well, I’m talking about the art of making a fool of 
people,” he answered, blandly; “and if there’s any one 
can beat you at that, I’ve never met the person. Why, 
there’s not a man nor a woman about this place, nor a boy 
nor a girl, either, Avho isn’t all smiles and simpers when- 
ever you make your appearance; and the housekeeper 
brings flowers for the ‘dear, sweet young lady;’ and the 
slavey Avashing the steps grins to you as if your going past 
her was a favor. Oh, yes, you can do it. Why, you left 
those Wy grams in a perfectly gelatinous condition; I 
don’t suppose Janie Wygram has done crying yet. Now I 
want you to try a little of that same business on my pa, 
and see what you can do Avith him. He’s an uncommon 
rough subject, I can tell you; you’ll have your Avork cut 
out for you; but if you can manage it, it will be a rare 
good thing for both of us. You’ll have no trouble Avith the 
mater. She’s gone; she collapsed the minute she saw you. 
But if you make up your mind to go for the old man — and 
you can do it if jmu like— there’s no saying Avhat he mayn’t 
do for us. You see, picking ferns along these Cornisli 
lanes is all very fine, and so is sitting on the top of a clilf 
and wondering how long it Avill be to lunch-time; but when 
we get back to London there will ha\"e to be some consid- 
ering of ways and means. Of course it will be all right— 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 149 

you needn’t be afraid; but in the meantime you might as 
well be civil to the old gentleman.” 

“Oh, yes, I’ll be civil to him,” said Sabina, laughing. 
She did not attribute too serious a motive to these wise 
counsels. 

And doubtless it was chiefly as a joke that Fred Foster 
pretended to regard this trip into Buckinghamshire as the 
scheme of a couple of adventurers in sore need of money, 
and affected to advise Sabina as to how she should play 
her game. If the game was that of fascination, she had 
no need of his advice— it came naturally to her. From the 
moment that she set foot in the old-fashioned house just 
outside Missenden, the tall, pretty, refined- looking old 
lady who was mistress there became her daughter in-law’s 
bounden slave. She had come quickly to the door on 
hearing the wagonette drive up; the broad daylight — the 
open highway — she did not heed, though she was all 
trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears. The in- 
stant that Sabina alighted, she was caught to this kind old 
lady’s heart, and kissed again and again, Avithout much 
regard for any passer-by. “My dear! my dear!” was all 
that was said; but she took Sabina’s hand, and held it 
fast as she led her into the hall. She had scarce a word 
for her son. It was Sabina who was to be attended to; it 
was Sabina that she must herself take to her room; it was 
Sabina who Avas helped to remove her things, and pressed 
to have tea or Avine or anything she could fancy, and all 
the Avhile there was a good deal of petting and stroking of 
hands, Avith an occasional trickling tear or two. 

“She’s a goner,” said Fred Foster to himself (he Avas 
left Avith the luggage in the hall), but I’m not so sure about 
the old man.” 

By and by, Avhen the hubbub of the arrival had quieted 
down, the son of the house — Avho had been pretty much 
neglected in the meanAvhile— managed to get a few Avords 
in private Avith his Avife. 

“Look here, Sabie; I’m going along to see old Jakes — 
the keeper I’ve told you about, don’t you remember?— and 
most likely I sha’n’t be back till dinner-time. The mater 
has her household affairs to look after— she goes through 
them like clockAvork — you Avon’t see much of her. But 
the old man is in the greenhouse — I saw him go in a min- 
ute ago — Avhy don’t you go in and tackle him now? He’s 
only snipping at his grapes; you’ve got a splendid chance. 
Off you go, and do for him. 

She turned to him with a gravely innocent face, but 
there Avas some laughter in her eyes. 

“ I don’t know Avliat you mean. What am I to do?” 

“Oh, of bourse, you don’t know!” he retorted. “You 


150 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


don't know how to do it at all. It wasn’t you who knocked 
young Lionel out of his senses in about a couple of minutes 
in the Pavilion Gardens?” 

She thought for a moment, and then she laughed. 

“ Oh, do you remember that? Mrs. Wygram was angry 
with me about that. I am sure I did not know I had done 
anything.” 

“ Oh, you can do it very well. Just you go and try a lit- 
tle of the same kind of thing on my respected papa ; but 
mind, he isn’t two-and-twenty.” 

Well, whether from mischief, or idleness, or careless 
good-nature, Sabina, being thus left to herself, thought she 
could not do better than go and talk to the old gentleman 
— who had but spoken a few words of welcome to her and 
returned to his labors. Her reception in the greenhouse, 
when she timidly opened the door, was not of the most 
cordial kind. 

“ Where’s Fred?” the old gentleman said, sharply. 

“He has gone to see the game-keeper, I think. Shall 
I — shall I be in your way, sir, if I stay here a little while?” 

“Left you alone already, has he?” the old man grum- 
bled ; and seerped disinclined for further conversation. 

But Sabina had had long experience in the humoring of 
people. She began to ask a few questions. Soon he was 
telling her all about his grapes, with a touch of profes- 
sional pride. She had praises for a country life. She was 
fond of a garden. What did he consider, now, gave him 
most satisfaction for all the care he expended — what were 
the flowers he was most interested in? The next thing 
that happened was that the old gentleman found himself 
walking about in the open with this pretty daughter-in- 
law of his, showing her all his treasures, chatting to her 
quite briskly and cheerfully, and apparently vastly pleased 
with both himself and her. 

That was but the beginning. When dinner-time arrived, 
Fred Foster got back rather late, and had barely a couple 
of minutes to rush up-stairs and wash his hands and brush 
his hair. When he came down again, what was his aston- 
ishment to And old Mr. Foster arraj^ed in an antiquated 
suit of evening dress, with a stiff white neckcloth, and a 
waistcoat of black satin, adorned with flowers and colored 
silk. Such a thing had not happened within the son’s 
recollection. 

“Halloo, father,” said he; “ this is rather formal, isn’t 
it?” 

“ You may treat your wife as you please; I hope I know 
how to show respect for my daughter-in-law,” was the 
chilling rejoinder. 

“ Well, that’s rather rough on me,” the son said, good- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


151 


naturedly. “ I didn’t bring any evening dress. Why, you 
have aways set your face against it.” 

All during dinner, too, the old gentleman would have a 
monopoly of Sabina’s conversation, and resented any 
casual intrusion of his son as if he had no right to be there 
at all. As for the gentle- featured mother, she did not say 
much: she was content to sit and look at this new-found 
beautiful daughter, and to listen to her; and there were 
pride and a great atfection very evident in the tender gray 
eyes. She had not been busy with her household matters 
all the afternoon; she had found time to ransack certain 
sacred repositories, and many were the bits of old- 
fashioned finery and lace and trinkets that she had re- 
solved to bestow on Sabina. As she sat and looked at her, 
she thought it would be very nice to put such or such a 
thing round Sabie’s neck and fasten it in front with loving 
care. And there might be a kiss in return — for she 
thought the girl was rather affectionate. 

Mr. Fred Foster took his snubbing very patiently; he 
spoke a word now and again to his mother, and was well 
satisfied to see Sabina (as he would have phrased it) rising 
BO rapidly to first favorite. Grown happy with a few 
glasses of port, the old gentleman was gallantry itself. 
Many a rare old story, hidden for years in the dusky re- 
cesses of his memory, saw the light once more ; he was 
facetious, patronizing, sarcastic by turns, and generally he 
meant to convey to her that the young fellows of his day 
were a dashing set. adepts in all the arts of love and war. 
And then, when dinner was over, and John, the butler 
(who was also groom, and helped in the garden besides), 
had put the decanters on the table, old Mr. Foster filled 
Sabina’s glass and his own, and bowed to her graciously. 

“No speech-making, my dear,” said he; “but I hope 
you see that you are very welcome in this house.” 

” Haven’t you got a little bit of a blessing for me, too, 
father?” Mr. Fred ventured to interpose. 

‘‘For you?” said the old gentleman, after a moment’s 
hesitation. “Well, I will say this for you, that at last 
you have done a sensible thing— the first you ever did in 
your life, I think.” 

But the climax came later. Old Mr. Foster had several 
odd ways and habits, to which he adhered with the rigor 
begotten of a methodical country life; and one of these 
was his invariable custom of going into the spacious stone- 
floored kitcken, the last thing at night, to smoke a pipe or 
two of tobacco in solitary communion with himself. Mrs. 
Foster could not bear the odor of tobacco in any of the 
rooms, not even in the greenhouse. The household went 
early to bedj the maids, before leaving, had everything 


153 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


trimly swept and tidied up ; and there was a small wooden 
table placed in front of the smoldering fire, with decan- 
ters, a jar of tobacco, and two long church-wardens. The 
second church- warden was supposed to be placed there for 
the service of Mr. Fred; but as a matter of fact, that 
young gentleman did not find much gayety in sitting and 
listening to grumblings over his own conduct and gloomy 
prophecies as to the future of the agricultural interests of 
the country, so that the old man generally^at there alone ; 
nor had he ever been known to ask any one to keep him 
company. Indeed, he was supposed to be busy. This was 
the time for the review of the day’s doings, for plans for 
the morrow, and so forth. And this solitarj^ retirement to 
the great and gaunt kitchen (which, nevertheless, was 
clean and warm enough) he had practiced as a rite for over 
thirty years. 

“My dear,” said he to Sabina, “ do you object to the 
smell of tobacco?” 

“I like it,” was the plain answer. 

“Yes, they all say that ” 

“ Oh, but I do— and it’s very well I do, for sometimes I 
get a good dose of it.” 

“ Then you won’t mind giving me a little of your com- 
pany? My smoking-room is a plain one— the kitchen. 
There’s always a fire, you see, and we don’t annoy any- 
body. Where’s your husband?” 

“I think he has gone back to Jakes again, sir, to see 
about some dogs.” 

“Come along, then, my dear,” said he; and when she 
promptly rose, he took her hand and placed it within his 
arm, and marched her away. “ It isn’t a gilded smoking- 
saloon; but it’s snug. And I’ve such a story to tell you 
about an elopement. I had a hand in it myself, too, that 
I had, though it wasn’t me the young lady was running 
away with. Faith, that was an act of friendship, wasn’t it? 
To run away with a young lady on behalf of somebody else, 
and scarcely a man of the family less than a sLx-footer. 
But we did it— we did it, ay, and she got safe away, and 
over the border both of them were before the people chas- 
ing thejn had got to Carlisle. Come along, my dear, and 
sit down by the fire; it’s a long story to tell. But there 
was some fun in those days.” 

Fred Foster came in by and by. 

“Where’s Sabie?” he asked of his mother, who was 
quietly knitting in the little drawing room. 

“ She has gone to sit with your father,” was the answer, 
and the old lady smiled a little. 

“ What! You don’t mean in the kitchen?” he exclaimed, 
for such a thing had never been heard of before. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


15B 


“ Yes, indeed. He asked lier, and she went at once.” 

” Well, upon my soul! What’s the matter with the old 
gentleman?” 

Mrs. Foster looked up. 

“It’s very early in your married life to show jealousy, 
isn't it? But you’d better take care.” And then she 
added : “Ah, well, she is a dear 1 And this is what I think, 
Fred— that nothing luckier ever happened to you than 
your falling off that bicycle.” 

If there was anybody jealous it was not Fred Foster. Jt 
was the old man, who was determined to monopolize Sabina, 
and resented the slightest interference on the part of his 
son. The next morning, when Mr. Fred was buttoning on 
his gaiters in the hall, he called in to the breakfast-room : 

“Mother, we shall be shooting over Crookfield to-day. 
Will you bring Sabie along for awhile? or will you send 
Tom to show her the road?” 

But it was the old man who answered, and that sha»’ply, 
too- 

“ Nothing of the kind. What! Dawdling along muddy 
hedge-rows or crossing wet turnip-fields!” Then the voice 
became less gruff. “No, no, my dear! we’ve something 
better for you than that. Just to think that you’ve never 
seen Hampden House, and the splendid avenue of Spanish 
chestnuts, and the relics, and all ! Why, I’ll show you the 
very spot where they tried to levy the ship-money. Yes, 
yes, my dear, it’s a beautiful country. I’ll drive you 
myself; and then Ave’ll go on to Wendover, and maybe 
pick up a bit of lace for you— local industries, you know — 
local industries must be encouraged.” 

And so Mr. Fred went away with the keeper and the 
dogs, while Sabina by and by found herself seated next the 
old gentleman in front of the Avagonette, and leisurely 
driving along a pleasant highAvay on this clear and fresh 
September morning. She Avas in excellent spirits, and 
ready to be pleased Avith everything she saw. She even 
took good-naturedly the grumblings and growlings that 
greeted the slightest reference to her husband. 

“But you may be of his Avay of thinking too,” he said, 
and he sharply glanced at her. 

“ How, sir?” 

“Oh, Avell,” he said, softening a little, “it might be 
more natural to you— yes, j^es; I should not be surprised if 
you thought our life in this quiet place rather monotonous 
and dull. You are accustomed to the gay life of a big town 
— balls and parties.” 

“ Indeed, no,” Sabina said, simply, “ that Avas never my 
way of living at all.” 

“But look at him,” the old gentleman said, angrily. 


154 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ Look at him— a Buckinghamshire lad— born and bred in 
this very valle\' — but nothing here is good enough for him 
—he must be off and away, living like a lord, and thinking 
of nothing but the different ways of spending money. 
There’s Crookfield — the very place he is off to this morning. 
Mullein’s lease falls in next Michaelmas. The old man’s 
wife died last year; his sons are doing very well in Texas; 
he’s going out to them ; and so the farm falls on my hands. 
Therp’s a fine old farm-house — one of the prettiest places in 
the neigborhood — where any young couple might make 
themselves comfortable and snug. But would my gentle- 
man look at it. Oh no; spending money, not making it, is 
his trade; though goodness knows there’s not much money 
coming nowadays to people who have farms to let — in this 
part of the world, at all events. There it is, you see— the 
farm coming on my hands— as fine a farm as any in the 
country standing empty— and him hoi*se -racing, I suppose, 
and billiard-playing, and spending money.” 

” But it is only natural for a young man to like amuse- 
ment,” she said, gently. “And besides, sir, you should 
remember he has just turned over a new leaf. He is to be 
quite a reformed character when he goes back to London.” 

“ Why should he go back to London?” 

She did not answer that question; but she understood 
clearly enough the drift of these remarks ; and that same 
evening she said to her husband : 

“I suppose you know, Fred, what the old people would 
like us to do. They would like us to settle down here, in 
the farmhouse at Crookfield, so as to be near them.” 

“Yes, I know very well,” said he. “It’s exceedingly * 
kind of them; but I’m not going to bury myself alive just 
yet. And you— do you mean, to tell me you could bear 
with another fortnight— well, let’s say a month — do you 
mean to tell me you could stand a month of the kind of 
life they live here?” 

She looked at him in amazement. 

“Why,” she said, “ I could live all my life this way, if 
I thought I had any right to do so. Could anything be 
more pleasant, and peaceful, and harmless— the garden, 
the driving, the seeing to the house?” 

“ It isn’t wildly exciting,” he remarked. 

“ But you don’t know how lazy I am naturally,” she an- 
swered. “A fine day, a seat in the garden, and a book— 
what more could any one want? And I am sure kinder 
people never were born; oh yes, this kind of life would suit 
me very well. But I know I haven’t earned the right to 
it. When we get back to London, and when you have a 
little time to come along with me, I will show you why I 


f 


BAhlNA ZEMBRA. 155 

could not accept this quiet, pleasawt life down here with 
anything like a good conscience. Perhaps some day ” 

“Perhaps some day we will do Darby and Joan, you 
mean?” he said, lightly. “I know one Darby— in these 
here parts— who seems a good deal fonder of his daughter- 
in-law than of his own lawful wife.” 

‘‘And how awfully fond she is of you, Fred!” 

“Yes,” he said, “ the has spoiled me all the way 

through. That’s what has made me the wreck I am.” 

“ The wretch, you mean.” 

“ It’s all the same,” he said, carelessly. 

In the meantime there was nothing to be done beyond 
the getting through these holidays as pleasantly as might 
be, and she submitted with a gracious indolence to the lit- 
tle plans that these good people drew out for her; and very 
kind indeed they were to her, and* very proud of her they 
seemed. It was during this period, moreover, that she saw 
her husband at his best. If there was one strong feature 
in his character, it was his passionate devotion to his 
mother; and this, that she had only guessed at from his 
talking, she now saw put in evidence, in a hundred pretty 
ways, from morning till night. Just about as clearly as 
most people, Sabina perceived her husband’s peculiarities 
and defects, for she had a calm understanding, and she was 
not blinded by any wild romanticism. He was frivolous, 
careless, infirm of purpose; he was a little comical, and not 
a little selfish. But his affection for his mother, his ad- 
miration of her, his praises of her goodness, his faith in her 
counsels, his delight in her personal appearance— all these 
were beautiful things to look at or to listen to. If old Mr. 
Foster would have Sabina go with him for a stroll along 
the autumn-tinted highways, the son was well content to 
follow behind with the pretty and gentle mother, teasing 
her sometimes, at others petting her, but ever and always 
her champion. 

“ I suppose it is rather a stupid thing,” he said to Sabina, 
“ for a man to be proud of his own mother; but then, you 
see, they don’t often make them like that.” 

“She has been very kind to me.” Sabina said, rather 
wistfully ; she had not enjoyed much of a mother’s care. 

On the morning of their leaving for London, Fred Fos- 
ter addressed the following remarks to his wife, during the 
process of heaving his things into his portmanteau : 

“Well, now, Sabie, you’ve done everything I asked of 
you, and done it thoroughly, too. I thought you would 
have had a tougher job with the old man ; but you’ve settled 
him; you’ve made a poor, wretched, gelatinous thing of 
him; he’s just as silly about you as the Wy grams used to 
be. But look here, my dear, ” he said, regarding her rather 


15B 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


niefull}'. “I haven’t seen any practical outcome of it. 
Here we are going back, and not a word has been said 
about any little friendly assistance to two young people 
starting life together.” 

“Oh, Fred,” she remonstrated, “don’t talk about 
money ! They have been goodness itself to us.” 

‘ ‘ Yes, my dear child ; but money insists on being talked 
about— it is a way it has got. I don’t say w^e haven’t 
enough for present necessities; and those rooms in the 
Strand are not expensive— considering how handy they 
are; but still — one would have liked a trifling augmenta- 
tion of income, so to speak ; or even supposing that a little 
friendly check had been slipped into one’s hand, I dare say 
one might have pocketed one’s dignity. Or perhaps he 
doesn’t beli^Jve in mj^ playing good boy down here? 
Wants to see how our small establishment is going to 
work? Payment by results, eh?” 

“Fred, don’t talk like that !” she implored. “ Surely we 
have enough, if we are careful and economical.” 

“ Oh, I assure you I am not frightened about the future,” 
he said, gayly. “The success of your performance down 
here has quite reassured me. When you can do for such 
a tough old character as my father, you won’t have 
much difficulty in bringing your own father to reason, if 
once you set your mind to it. We shall be all right, never 
fear. ’ ’ 

Old Mrs. Foster was crying a little when she embraced 
her daughter-in-law for the last time at Wycombe station. 

“Dear child,” she said, “I — I suppose you are doing 
right in going away from us — but— but remember there is 
always a home w^aiting for you when you choose. God 
bless you, my dear ! — I shall look forward to your coming 
home. I know you will come and comfort the last years 
of an old woman’s life.” 

Sabina was not a sentimental person ; but this old lady 
had been very, very kind to her. 

“ Good-bye, mother,” she said, with a half-stifled sob in 
her throat; and after they had got away from the station, 
she sat very silent in a corner of the carriage, not caring 
to show that her downcast lashes were wet. 

CHAPTER XX. 

IN LONDON AGAIN. 

This was Janie Wygram who was making her way up a 
dusky and narrow little staircase in a house in the Strand, 
and wondering the while what had induced the newly-mar- 
ried pair to pitch their dwelling in the very center of the 
great city’s turmoil. Then she gained a landing ; there was 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


157 


an open door before her ; and the next moment this was no 
other than her beloved Sabie who had eagerly caught her 
by both hands and drawn her into the light and kissed her, 
and was smiling and laughing with gladness to see her 
again. 

“And I know what you’re thinking, Janie — that we’ve 
gone stark, staring mad to come and live in such a place. 
Oh, but you have no idea how convenient it is. I can pop 
down to Hungerford Pier in a couple of minutes — the 
Charity Organization Society is quite close by; there’s 
Charing Cross station handy for Fred, and Waterloo not so 
far away.” 

At the first mention of Fred Foster’s name the rather be- 
wildered Janie involuntarily looked round, and Sabina in- 
stantly understood that mute interrogation. 

“Fred’s gone down to Lillie Bridge,” she said, lightly. 

As plainly as possible Janie’s little glance of surprise 
said, “ He has left you already — alone in London, too?” but 
she was a prudent lass, and held her peace; and Sabina 
(whether or not she had noticed that look of surprise) con- 
tinued, cheerfully enough; 

“I suppose he’ll find some friends there, for he’s not 
coming back till the evening, and so I thought I would use 
the day for my own purposes. That is why I wrote to 
you, Janie, dear. I want you to come and help me in get- 
ting a few things for the rooms. Comfortable little rooms, 
aren’t they? And one need never be dull, either; just look 
at this.” 

She took her friend to the window, and showed her the 
busy, noisy thoroughfare, with its continual stream of 
passers-by, its shops and pavements and sandwich-men, 
its cabs and vans and omnibuses, its ceaseless movement 
and kaleidoscopic groupings. 

“When I’m left a poor, forlorn grass widow,” Sabina 
said, “ I can always amuse myself there. But you know, 
Janie, I sha’n’t have much time for moping. Come, shall 
we go and begin our purchases at once? I want to get a 
few pretty things, and some useful things as well, just to 
make the place trim and snug. Fred was no use in the 
way of advice; the only thing he could suggest was a cel- 
laret.” 

All this time Janie had been quite silent; but now she 
took Sabina’s hand in hers, and regarded her with tender 
and earnest and wistful eyes, and said: 

“Ah, you don’t know, Sabie— how glad I am— to find 
you so— so— so happy— and contented.” 

“ Why } ou dear, good, silly creature,” Sabina answered, 
good-humoredly, “ what did you expect? Did you expect 
tQ find me sitting with a dagger and a bowl of poison be- 


158 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


fore me? Come along, now, and we’ll get our shopping 
done, and then we’ll come back here to have a bit of 
lunch, and you will tell me all about my friends down in 
Chelsea. ’ ’ 

And so they set forth, and soon they were both en- 
grossed in that important business. At the same time 
Janie could not fail to perceive that Sabina seemed deter- 
mined to be scrupulously economical, and betrayed a quite 
new desire to have money’s worth for her money. For- 
merly she had been distinctly free-handed — even to care- 
lessness; but now questions of small savings were consid- 
ered ; and more than once she contented herself with a sec- 
ond-rate article, in spite of Janie’s protests. On their way 
back to the rooms in the Strand she even made some little 
kind of apology. 

“You see, Janie, if I am to have any margin at all to 
help my poor people down there, we must be very prudent 
in what we spend on ourselves. I dare say, in time, and 
with care, we may make a little nest-egg, just in case of 
emergency : but at present it is pretty much hand-to- 
mouth, and I know my father won’t alter his resolution, 
whatever Fred may think. That hundred pounds my 
father gave me for the wedding outfit just made all the dif- 
ference to us; you know I spent as little as ever I could, 
and out of the balance I paid for all these things we have 
been buying; and I lent Fred twenty pounds this morning; 
and even now I have another tive-and-twenty left. So you 
see, when I come again to visit my friends down there, I 
sha’n’t have a quite empty purse.” 

“You lent Mr. Foster twenty pounds this morning?” 
Janie was startled into saying. 

“Oh, well,” Sabina rejoined, with her usual good-nat- 
ure, “ he chose to call it a loan. I don’t suppose our united 
fortunes will be so great that we need keep an account be- 
tween us. I suppose that trip to Cornwall rather impov- 
erished him— the driving is so expensive there; when you 
get married, my dear child, don’t you go to Cornwall.” 

“How very business-like you have grown, Sabie!” her 
friend exclaimed— perhaps with a touch of disappoint- 
ment. 

“ A married woman, my dear, has her responsibilities,” 
Sabina answered, briskly, as they were ascending to the 
room. “ And the first of these at present is to decide what 
we shall send out for for lunch. Better siill — we’ll ring 
for the landladJ^ and ask her advice.” 

It was quite like old times for these two to be having a 
frugal little meal together; and of course there was a great 
deal to be talked over concerning the futures and condi- 
tion of the poor people who had been temporarily UTuler 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 159 

Janie’s charge. Nor were other friends forgotten ; and at 
last Sabina said : 

“And what about Walter Lindsay?” 

Janie looked up quickly. 

“Why, surely you know he has gone to America!” 

“Oh, yes, I remember his speaking about it,” Sabina 
said. 

“ His speaking about it,” Janie repeated, with something 
of reproach in her tone ; and then she added, with a bit of 
a sigh, “Ah, well, Sabie, I suppose it was not your fault 
that you did not care for him.” 

“But I did care for him,” Sabina answered, warmly— 
‘ ‘ I cared for him very much indeed. He and I were al- 
ways the best of friends. I hardly ever knew any one I 
liked more — why, how could it be otherwise? — he was so 
generous, and manly, and courteous in every way. And 
so pleasant in manner — I tell you I liked him very, very 
much indeed.” 

“ He loved you, Sabie.” 

Sabina hesitated for a moment, not knowing which way 
to take this. 

“ You should not say such things,” she said, quietly. 

“There’s no harm in saying it now,” was the rejoinder. 

“ There would be harm, if it were true,” Sabina said, 
quickly. “ And I knew that you had some fancy of the 
kind, from the way you kept on talking about him. You 
mistook the very frankness of his friendship for something 
quite different.” 

“Sabie, I’m telling the truth!” she cried. “Why, lie 
worshiped the very ground you trod on! There never 
was a man loved a woman more than he did you. He 
thought of nothing else but you; night and day he was 
contriving to do you some little kindness — or even to keep 
himself in your remembrance. Loved you? yes, I should 
think he did — you will never meet with a love like that 
again, if you live for a hundred years.” 

“ Janie, you forget!” 

“ No, I don’t forget,” Janie said, piteously, “ but I want 
to speak just this once. I think it is cruel — he goes away, 
without a word — well, that is just like him— up to the last 
he had no thought or wish but for your happiness; and 
now — when you talk of other people— you — you mention 
him just as an ordinary acquaintance, and you’ve half for- 
gotten that he’s gone away to America. I suppose he 
would prefer that; it was always his way; whatever was 
best for you — that was all he thought of. I went to tell 
him when you got engaged. I suppose I was rather put 
about. 1 had expected other things. But would he say a 
single word— except of kindness for you? No, he made 


160 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


me promise to remain your friend whatever happened ; he 
made me promise to make the best of everything; he had 
nothing to say about himself, though I could guess well 
enough. ’ ’ 

“And so you think you are making the best of every- 
thing, Janie, by telling me all this?” 

“ I don’t want him to be quite forgotten. I don’t think 
it’s fair. You would have remembered if the most ordi- 
nary acquaintance had gone away to America; and this 
man— the noblest man that I have ever met with— he goes 
away from his own country — and with a broken heart, as 
I take it — and you scarcely remember ’ ’ 

“Janie, don’t make me angry,” Sabina said. “I tell 
you I remembered well enough his intention of going to 
America ; we talked of it on my wedding-day ; and he was 
as cheerful then as you might be now, if you had only a 
little common-sense. Come, come, put that folly out of 
your head, and let me know if you have heard anything 
about him since his arrival— I should be glad to hear of 
him now and again — I suppose he has friends over there?” 

“Friends? Yes, I should say so!” said Janie, proudly. 
“You should have seen the account of the dinner they 
gave him at one of the artists’ clubs in New York — father 
»got the newspaper, but I don’t know who sent it— and 
they said such fine things about him, and spoke of his 
making America his home. But I know better than that,” 
Janie continued, with an air of authority — “ I know bet- 
ter than that. He meant it one time, no doubt; and he 
meant to sell his house and studio— and he asked me to go 
up one afternoon and help him to pick out keepsakes for 
the people we knew, before he sold everything off. Well, 
Ave were getting through with that — and we have all of us 
got something to remember him by — father, and mother, 
and all of us — Avhen he came to the Chippendale cabinet in 
the corner of the studio. He did not think I saw him ; but 
I did; he took out the cup of rock-crystal with the stones 
round it — you once drank out of that cup, Sabie ” 

A slight flush came on Sabina’s forehead. 

“It was a piece of nonsense— I should have thought 
nothing of it only that your mother mentioned it after- 
ward.” 

“ Well, he looked at it a long time; and then he put it 
back ; and then he turned to me. ‘ Do you remember the 
night Sabina came here to supper?’ he said— for I had 
asked him to call you Sabina during these last few days, 
when we were talking a little about you. ‘ Of course I 
do,’ I said. ‘Do you remember how pretty she lookcil 
when she was up at the corner of the table— the yellow 
Uchu of lace round her neck, and the bunch of forget-inc- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


161 


nots in front? She was very kind to me that night. And 
do you remember her coming along thro’^gh the garden, 
like a pale, beautiful ghost; and her su -^rise at finding 
the studio so well lit up. That is where she sat — on the 
sofa there — while they were singing ‘ ‘ Shepherds, have 
you seen my Flora pass this way?” — you remember all 
that evening, Miss Janie?’ As if I were likely to forget 
it! ‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s no use. I meant to sell this 
place, and go to America for good. I’m going to America, 
that’s all right; but so help me God, so long as I have a 
shilling left, I will never allow a stranger to come in and 
take possession of this house !’ And that is how it stands 
at this moment ; and yet— yet — you say that man was not 
in love with you 1” 

“Janie,” Sabina said, “you talk to me as if you had 
something to reproach me with — as if T had done Walter 
Lindsay a great wrong. Well, you know Walter Lindsay. 
But so do I ; and I think I know him well enough to make 
sure he never meant you to speak to me like that.” 

This was a deadly home-thrust; and for a second poor 
Janie became rather pale, and bit her lip. 

“You may say anything you like against me, Sabie; I 
am quite content when I see you begin to appreciate Walter 
Lindsay a little.” 

That was all that was said on this subject just then, for 
lunch was over now; and when Sabina asked Janie w^hat 
they ought to do that afternoon (Mr. Fred not returning 
till seven), and when Janie besought her to go down and 
see the old people in Kensington Square, she most cheer- 
fully consented. They spent the w'hole afternoon partly in 
Kensington Square, and partly in certain neighborhoods to 
the south of that, looking up a few old friends and acquaint- 
ances ; and then, when Sabina had to return to the Strand, 
Janie made the voyage with her from Chelsea Pier to 
Hungerford, but could not be induced to go further than 
that. Some other time, she said, she would call and see 
Mr. Foster and Sabina together. 

As it chanced, if she had accompanied Sabina home to 
those rooms, she would have found Fred Foster in a re- 
markably good humor. 

“Ain’t we smart!” said he, as he came in (Sabina had 
preceded him by but a few minutes). “Now, I do call this 
uncommonly neat and snug for the very middle of London. 
Oh, Janie helped you, did she? Give her my love when 
you see her; she’s not particularly beautiful; but I con- 
sider those people were awfully good to you. Now, Dame 
Durden, what’s the programme tor this evening? To begin 
with, some dinner. The strong point of this arrangement 
is that we are not dependent on cooks or butlers or any- 


Sabina zembba. 


102 

body who may get drunk and break things ; you wander 
out into the world of London and dine where you please — 
the best of food and the best of wines, if you only know 
where to go ; no bother ; you can entertain your friends, 
too, when fortune smiles on you. So off you go and make 
yourself gorgeous; and we’ll try the Cri.” 

“The what?” she asked. 

“The Criterion. No; let me see; we’ll go to the Cafe 
Royal ; there I may have a cigar after dinner. Look alive, 
for I’m desperately hungry.” 

They went to that restaurant, and Mr. Fred showed con- 
siderable experience and skill in ordering their little ban- 
quet, with its appropriate wines. Sabina rather took him 
to task for his extravagance ; but he said, lightly : 

“ Oh, you let me alone. I’ve had a little bit of luck to- 
day. Well, I don’t consider it luck, as I told you before — 
I consider it bare justice — it’s only getting a little of my 
property back. Don’t you make any mistake— the breast 
of a partridge and a glass of Pommard were specially in- 
vented by a beneficient Providence to go together— don’t 
be a fool, but do as you’re bid. I tell you I’m going to 
look after you, and see you through this turmoil they call 
life.” 

He was quite merry, indeed ; and told her many facetious 
stories about the two or three companions he had run 
against during the day ; indeed, so lightly did the time pass 
that it was. after nine o’clock before he had finished his 
cigar and was ready to leave, 

“I had intended taking you to the theater,” he said, as 
he called for his bill, “but that’s the worst about glay- 
going in London now — the theaters are too popular; you 
are never sure of a decent seat, unless you solemnly make 
up your mind a long time before— as if you were going to 
be married, or hanged, or something. Then they don’t let 
you smoke. And besides, you’ve got to rush away in the 
middle of your dinner, just when one’s inner consciousness 
feels the want of repose. Now, the music-halls don’t give 
you the highest form of intellectual entertainment — I admit 
that. It isn’t Shakespeare. But, mind you, there’s some- 
thing uncommonly handy in your being able to drop in at 
any time; always something going on; a cigar, or a drink, 
when you want it; or an evening paper, to vary the thing. 
Look here, what do you say to driving up to the Oxford for 
an hour?” 

“ The Oxford?” she repeated, inquiringly. 

“Yes; it’s a music-hall, don’t you know? Oh, well, it 
isn’t high culture, as I admit; but it’s a way of passing an 
hour; and then you wouldn’t meet anybody — T mean, we 


BABINA ZEMBRA. 


163 


^should get a private box; no one would know that you 
were there. And sometimes there’s very good singing.” 

” If you don’t mind,” she said, ” I think I would as soon 
go back to our rooms, and see how all our new finery 
looks.” 

“Oh, very well,” he said, contentedly; and so they 
went down-stairs, and got into a hansom, and were driven 
liome. 

Sabina took to planning and arranging, and stitching 
where that was wanted ; he applied himself to Dufton’s ex- 
(udlent treatise on “Practical Billiards,” but soon fell 
asleep. When he awoke, it was half-past eleven ; and then 
he proceeded to mix for himself a little spirits and water, 
as an adjunct to his final cigar. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 

Now, there had been a clear understanding, if no formal 
compact, between these two that their life after marriage 
was to be in a manner a combination of their separate lives 
before it. He was to be at her right hand in all her various 
duties; she was to reward herself occasionally by a little 
participation in his amusements. He had talked her over 
into considering this a very sensible and practical scheme ; 
and on the one or two occasions when he was allowed to 
accompany her on her errands of mercy and help, his good- 
humor, his shrewd acquaintance with the world’s ways, 
and his vivacious society, all came in very well. Unfort- 
unately for this idea of copartnership, however, when they 
returned to London it so happened that the Czarevitch and 
Cambridgeshire handicaps had just been published; and he 
was much interested in the discussion of these imposts; and 
he was away a good deal among acquaintances whom he 
did not care to introduce to his wife, because their conv^er- 
sation was not in the least likely to interest her. 

Then came the Doncaster September Meeting. But 
when he had spoken of Sabina’s giving herself a little 
holiday relaxation now and again, he had never thought of 
proposing to her a rough-and-tumble journey down to 
Yorkshire and back. He had thought of a sunny afternoon 
at Lord’s, looking on at a cricket match; or a trip down 
the river in the steamer of the Royal Thames Yacht Club; 
or the Oaks, perhaps, or Ascot, or Goodwood — something 
pretty, and lively, and socially amusing ; not this business- 
like meeting in the north. At the same time he considered 
it prudent, and even kind, to break the news of his going 
in an artful and diplomatic manner. 


164 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“Dame Durden,” said he, “ you’ re a young and innocent 
thing; I wish you’d pray for the success of Squire Tipton.” 

“That’s a horse, I suppose?” she said, looking up from 
her books— for she now kept minute accounts of her ex- 
penditure. 

“1 should say so; and a very good horse, too. He’s m 
for the Yorkshire Handicap on Tuesday; and seeing that 
he ran second for last year’s St. Leger, and that he is as 
fit as a fiddle, according to all accounts, I think he’ll do 
the trick. That’s Tuesday afternoon. I suppose I ought 
to go down Monday night; there’s a train arriving about 
nine. Then the Leger is Wednesday ” 

“ But where is all thist^’ she asked, innocently. 

“ Why, Doncaster.” And then he added, “ It wouldn’t 
be worth your while, would it, to go all that way and back 
just for these few days?” 

She hesitated; was it not for him to decide? 

“Oh no, I’m sure it wouldn’t!” he said, instantly, 
interpreting her silence his own way. “It isn’t a ladies’ 
meeting. I wouldn’t advise you to go. A lot of fatigue; 
precious little amusement. You won’t find the time hang 
heavily on your hands, will you, till I come back?” 

“ Indeed, no,” she said, with a smile. “There’s never a 
day long enough, it would seem.” 

The truth was that she had now to gather up again all 
the threads of her charitable work that had been tempora- 
rily dropped; and his devotion to his own pursuits left her 
all the more time down there in Chelsea, in the company 
of the indefatigable Janie. Janie was not at all sorry that 
Mr. Foster did not put in an appearance. Why, it was 
quite like old times for her to find herself going about with 
her bosom friend; and there was always tea for them, 
when they \vanted it, in Kensington Square ; and Sabie, in 
Mrs. Wygram’s eyes, was just as beautiful, and gracious, 
and bland, and good-natured as ever, and quite as sub- 
missive to all the petting that could be bestowed on her. 
These good people did not seem to be altogether angry 
when they heard that Mr.. Foster was going down to Don- 
caster, though of course they made the remark that it was 
pretty early for him to be leaving his young wife. 

But before Fred Foster went to Doncaster there were a 
few little matters to be considered. On the Friday even- 
ing, when Sabina returned home, she found him pacing up 
and down the little sitting-room in very evident disappoint- 
ment. 

“ It’s pretty hard,” he said. “ I suppose I must ask you 
to lend me a five-pound note ” 

“But I will give it you,” she said, promptly, and she 
went to her desk with a light heart. “I’m sure there is 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


165 


not much use in talking of lending or borrowing as be- 
tween you and me— whatever I have is yours and wel- 
come.” 

“If you’re in such a generous mood,” he said, rather 
thanklessly, “you might make the fiver a tenner, if you 
can.” 

“Well, I can,” she answered, “but it won’t leave me 
very much.” 

“ It’s very absurd, all this,” he continued, in his grum- 
bling way, and he scarcely regarded her counting out the 
money on the table. ‘ ‘ Of course I thought the old man 
was going to do something— especially after the fuss he 
made about j^ou. I consider it very shabby. I don’t care 
for professions of interest and affection that don’t mean 
anything. Why, it was enough to lead any one into being 
careless— or, at least, hopeful— the way they both treated 
you; and they must know very well that a wedding trip 
costs something; and I’m sure they couldn’t expect me to 
have saved up a fortune out of my allowance ’ ’ 

“ But surely, Fred, so long as we can live comfortably 
enough, I would not make the relationship too much of a 
mercenary one?” she said, gently. “I am sure I never 
thought their kindness to me meant money. And look 
how well off we are as compared to many ! It may be an- 
noying to be in want of a few sovereigns now and again; 
but look at the comfort of knowing that our income, how- 
ever small, is assured. There are the ten pounds; isn’t it 
enough?” 

••Yes, it is — for the present; it is the whole situation 
that seems to me unbearable, and absurd also.” 

“ But if you have enough, what more would you have?” 
she asked— and she was inclined to laugh at this spoiled 
child. “ You know, I shall be having my little check com- 
ing along on the 22d.” 

“ Yes, the twelfth part of one hundred and fifty pounds, ” 
he said, bitterly. “Accurately divided, to the shilling. 
No, no; I tell you it won’t do, Sabie. There must be some 
alteration. We ought to begin as we mean to go on; 
and it is easier for j'ou to deal with your people than for 
me with mine ; for your father is a very rich man, with 
whom the money itself can be no object, and I am per- 
fectly certain he would do the right thing— what he ought 
in natural fairness to do — if he was approached the right 
way.” 

She glanced toward him, and then she lowered her eyes. 

“ Do you mean that — that I should ask?” 

“Y(^s, certainly,” he said, bluntly. “The very least he 
can do is to give you the allowance you had before you 


166 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


were married. Surely there is as much need of it now as 
then. That is the very least you ought to ask for.” 

A faint color overspread her forehead. 

“You don’t know,” she said in a rather low voice, 
“ what his manner was toward me when that matter was 
settled— and— how he spoke of you. ” 

“Oh, that I understand perfectly well,” he said, impa- 
tiently. “Why, it’s the common story. Of course people 
say nasty things when they don’t like a marriage; and 
goodness knows he’s w^elcome to call me all the names he 
can think of But that’s neither here nor there. We 
can’t afford to take a little display of temper for more than 
it is worth. It’s only on the stage that parents curse their 
disobedient daughter, and drive her forth, and keep im- 
possible vows about never seeing her again. Blood is 
thicker than water, depend upon it. I have no doubt 
your father was annoyed ; I dare say I should have been 
annoyed if I had been in his place; and mind, you had 
been leading him on to be annoyed. I don’t understand it 
at all ; you can manage everybody else you come across— 
why did you quarrel with him?” 

“ There was no quarrel that I know of,” Sabina said, 
simply; “ but we had different wa3^s of looking at things, 
that is all. When I left the house it was on a quite friendly 
understanding.” 

“ Oh, well, he has simmered down by this time. And 
really something must be done. Will you w’rite to him?” 

“ Fred,” she said, with a touch of entreaty in her voice, 
“ if you only knew the things he said ” 

“ M3" dear creature, if you paid heed to the things that 
are said about you, or thought about 3^011, life would be in- 
tolerable. Let us get to something of more importance 
than that. And the immediate and actual thing is, that it 
is impossible for us to go on in this hand-to-mouth way.” 

And yet still she hesitated. Of course, he could not know 
everything of her father’s demeanor toward her during 
that interview — the cold exactitude of his phrases, his con- 
temptuous references to the man who was about to become 
her husband. He could not understand how eager she had 
been that he would agree to her renouncing that allowance 
altogether, and with what a recurrent shame and mortifi- 
cation it was that she felt herself compelled, month by 
month, to receive money from such a source. And now — 
to sit down and write for more! 

A happy idea struck her. 

“Besides, it would be no use writing,” she said, “for 
they are abroad at present.” 

“ Oh, no, they’re not,” he said, “begging your pardon, 
Look at this,” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 167 

He handed her an evening paper, and showed her a 
paragraph in it: 

“Sir Anthony and Ladj" Zembra have arrived in town 
from a protracted sojourn at Davos- Platz. They proceed 
next week on a visit to Dikeley Hall, Suffolk, the country 
residence of Isambard Zembra, Esq., of Red House, Camp- 
den Hill.” 

Sabina recognized the style of the patient chronicler of 
the house of Zembra — Miss Renshaw, the governess, that is 
to say — and knew that the information was likely to be 
correct. 

“It is a capital opportunity,” he said, with a little face- 
tiousness. “They’re coming l3ack flushed with their holi- 
days. They’ll imagine you’ve been cooped up in London 
all the time ; and surely they will take pity on honest pov- 
erty. Oh, don’,! you be afraid of pitching the supplication 
pretty strong. What is the writing of a letter? Ten min- 
utes’ work — with a substantial reVard if you do it well 
enough. And you may depend on it, it won’t be preserved 
as a record against you. Sir Anthony won’t show that let- 
ter about; it will be torn up directly he has read it. Why, 
wouldn’t his constituents like to be told that the rich Sir 
Anthony allowed his eldest daughter the princely revenue 
of twelve pound ten shillings a month, and that she had to 
write to him for more? A pretty story for the local 
journals! a pretty cry at the next election! No, no; you 
may make your prayer as pathetic as ever you like ; that 
is one thing about himself that he won’t have sent to the 
public press.” 

Well, for some time she sat in silent consideration, while 
he lit a cigar and proceeded to scan the contents of the 
evening paper. And if the truth were known, it was not 
Fred Foster, nor any of his wants or wishes, that finally 
overcame her deep reluctance and induced her to write to 
her father. It was of a great many other people she was 
thinking — honest, well-meaning people she took them to be, 
and industrious when they had the chance — who yet had 
fallen into untoward circumstances in the geneml fight of 
the world, and had come to look on her as their wisest 
counselor and best and generous friend. The winter 
months would deal hardly with many of these poor folk. 
Scant food, scant firing, scant clothing would become the 
parents of illness ; illness meant enforced idleness ; it was 
those of them who were too proud to accept of parish 
relief who suffered the most and needed the most skillful 
management, if they were to be helped at all. Then she 
thought of her own little store. Twenty-five pounds a 
month used to be abundance; but now that was cut down 


1G8 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


by one-half; moreover, there were a good many Bmall in- 
cidental expenses connected with this modest establishment 
which she had hardly looked forward to, and which her 
husband did not seem to think it was his business to deal 
with. In point of fact, she had never yet received a far- 
thing from him — though he had bought her presents, and 
would have bought her more, only that she protested 
against his extravagance. On the contrary, she had lent 
him from her small hoardings until (as she thought of cer- 
tain families she knew) she was almost afraid to see what a 
pittance was left, and if there was really a chance that her 
father would listen. It was scarcely asking for herelf— it 
was rather begging for her poor ones. And so in the end 
she consented to write. 

And yet, as she wrote, she could not help remembering 
her father’s manner to her, and she was not very confi- 
dent. Nor could she demean herself by making too piteous 
an appeal. No; she merely asked him to reconsider the 
arrangement he had made ; and hoped that he would see 
his way to making her the same allowance that he had 
formerly made her, seeing that her marriage had not in- 
terfered at all, and was not likely to interfere, with those 
little charitable undertakings that used to have at least 
his tacit approval. And she trusted that his annoyance with 
her over the step she had taken would cease in time — she 
looked forward to that. 

Sabina handed the letter to her husband and he took it 
and read it. 

“ Well,” said he lightly, ” it’s rather a business-like pro- 
duction, and there isn’t much of the ad misericordiam, in 
forma pauperis kind of thing in it; but I dare say it will 
do very well. The old gentleman is too much a man of the 
world to continue a quarrel with his daughter over a hun- 
dred and fifty a year. ” ^ 

He rose and got his hat and cane. 

“Come along, Dame Durden,” he said, cheerfully. 
” We’ll post this letter so that he’ll get it the first thing in 
the morning; and then we’ll drive up to the Cafe Eoyal 
and have "a bit of dinner.” 

” Wouldn’t it be much cheaper to have some little thing 
here?” she suggested— thinking of the lent sovereigns and 
her diminished store. 

” Not for this negro minstrel. No; I may trust Mother 
Simmons as far as a boiled egg goes, or even a chop for 
lunch, but no further. Come along, I’m as hungry as a 
hawk.” 

And very merry and cheerful he was as they went out, 
apparently taking it for granted that Sir Anthony would 
consent. Perhaps the borrowed sovereigns in his waistcoat 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 169 

pocket added to his high spirits ; at all events, when the 
letter had been posted, he would have Sabina get into a 
hansom— though she was quite willing to walk ; and when 
to the cafe and taken their places, he pro- 
ceeded to order a little dinner that seemed to her quite un- 
necessarily prodigal. 

“The question now lies between Burgundy and cham- 
pagne, ’ ’ he observed. ‘ ‘ What do you say to that Bollinger 
we tried the other day?” 

“ I won’t have any wine, thank you,” she answered. 

“Why not?” 

“I would rather not have any, thank you,” she said, 
simply. 

“Well, that is pretty hard on me,” he remarked, with 
rueful sincerity. “For when we have a whole bottle, I get 
two- thirds of it; but when I order a pint, it is only a pint. 
Come, Sabie, change your mind — I want you to drink good 
luck to Squire Tipton.” 

“ Really, I would rather have no wine,” fehe said. 

“ Then a pint it must be,” he said; and he ordered that, 
while she drank water. 

They had just finished dinner, and Foster was pulling out 
his cigar-case, when two friends of his came along, and 
nodded to him as they passed the little table. The one was 
a middle-aged, shortish man, spare of frame, with a keen, 
weather-tanned face, prominent blue eyes, and a carefully 
waxed mustache ; the other a tall young man, with rather 
flabby, clean-shaven cheeks, very light hair, vacant eyes, 
and listless demeanor. Both were in evening dress, their 
light overcoats being over their arm. 

“Wait a minute, Raby,” Foster called after them, and 
they both turned ; “I want to introduce you to my wife — 
Captain Raby — Mr. Russell ” 

The tall, apathetic young man merely bowed ; but Cap- 
tain Raby said, ‘ ‘ Proud to have the honor of making your 
acquaintance, Mrs. Foster,” and stared at her so curiously 
that she dropped her eyes. 

“ I say, what are you after to-night?” Foster continued, 
regarding them both. “ Won’t you come down and smoke 
a cigar in my diggings— in the Strand, don’t you know?” 

The shorter of the two gentlemen was still looking at Sa- 
bina-examining her almost. 

“Delighted, I am sure,” he said, “ if Mrs. Foster will per- 
mit.” 

“ Oh, she doesn’t mind a cigar or two,” Fred Foster put 
in, instantly. “ Come along. We’ll go down in two han- 
soms. Tell your man to follow us — we will show you where 
to pull up.” 

In the cab Sabina said to him; 


170 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


“ Who are these two?” 

“The little man is Captain Raby— a very good sort of 
fellow— and as sharp as a needle. He manages all Lord 
Tynemouth’s turf affairs for him.” 

“ I don’t like him,” she said. 

“Why, you haven’t spoken a word to him yet! Oh, 
yes, he’s a very good sort of fellow — and one worth know- 
ing.” 

“And the other?” 

“ Russell! Don’t you know Russell & Schroeder in Ox- 
ford Street? Of course you do. Not that he has anything 
to do with the business; it’s his happy occupation to spend 
the money that has been made in it. ’ ’ 

“ He seems a soft-looking youth,” was Sabina’s sole com- 
ment. 

“Johnny Russell,” answered her husband, significantly, 
“is a very valuable young man- -an extremely valuable 
young man.” 

When they had all arrived at the rooms in the Strand, 
Fred Foster became his own butler, and produced cigars, 

f oda- water, brandy, and also a pack of cards, while Cap- 
ain Raby devoted himself to Sabina, staring at her as he 
spoke. It was sixpenny “Nap” they were going to play, 
and nothing would do them but that Sabina should join in ; 
and she, being a good-natured kind of creature, consented, 
though in her manner there was a trifie more reserve than 
usually appeared there when she joined a friendly little 
game at the Wygrams of an evening. Captain Raby ap- 
peared to care very little about the cards; he played 
mechanically and indifferently, and was mostly concerned 
in chatting across the table to Sabina — his talk chiefly con- 
sisting of little sarcastic comments about her husband and 
his ways and doings. Moreover, when she lifted her eyes 
— as sometimes she did in a puzzled kind oi fashion, for 
she understood the game but slightly, and was oftentimes 
uncertain as to what she should do— invariably she found 
his eyes regarding her, and that in a curiously familiar 
way. He said nothing to offend, but his manner was un- 
pleasant; and Sabina gradually withdrew herself from any 
conversation, attending to tlie cards in a perfunctory way, 
and anxious only to escape. At last, when the mild youth 
had boldly gone Nap, and got it, too. Captain Raby said: 

“ I’ll tell you what we’ll do now. Three Nap is as good 
as any. Now, I don’t think Mrs. Foster is having a fair 
chance. You haven’t played much, have you, Mrs. Fos- 
ter? Well, now, I will come and sit beside you and play 
your hand for you — give you advice, anyway—I would 
just as soon look on — and we’ll see if we can’t mend mat- 
ters a little.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


171 


He rose ; but Sabina refused his offer on the ground that 
she wished to withdraw from the game anyway. She had 
a slight headache; she would rather leave them to them- 
selves. There was a little bit of a scrimmage after this, 
the pale-faced youth timidly pleading with her to remain, 
Fred Foster laughing at her for being a bad loser, Captain 
Raby almost insisting that she and he together should 
play the same hand, and rout their foes. Sabina gently 
persisted, and with a little dignity, too ; she withdrew from 
the table to an arm-chair, and took a book ; and then they 
continued the game by themselves, with the addition of a 
half-a-crown pool to increase the attraction. 

They played late, Sabina wondering the while when they 
would go. And even after they had risen from the cards. 
Captain Raby would light another cigar, and would come 
and talk to Sabina in his gallant w^ay, and promise to see 
that her husband got into no mischief down at Doncaster. 
Immediately they had gone, Fred Foster said to her: 

“Well, Madam Dignity, what offended you to-night?” 

“Oh, nothing in particular,” she said; and then she 
looked up. “ What is that Captain Raby a captain in?” 

“ He was in the militia, I believe.” 

“ I don’t think he’s a gentleman,” she said. 

“Well, I like that,” Foster said, with a laugh. “He’s 
Lord Tynemouth’s brother-in-law, at any rate.” 

She made no reply to this. 

“ Perhaps you preferred the draper?” he asked. 

“Mr. Russell? Yes, I preferred his manner very much. 
And I suppose he is no more feeble and foolish than other 
brainless young men of the same type.” 

“ Well, we’re in a very hypercritical vein this evening,” 
he said, looking at her with some surprise. “ You’ll have 
to learn, my dear, that the world is made up of all sorts, 
and one can’t have one’s friends all turned out regulation 
pattern. I suppose there are some Admirable Crichtons 
somewhere, but they don’t abound in the Strand: and 
they won’t play whist to lighten the journey down to 
Doncaster. The one isn’t a gentleman, and the other is a 
fool? Well, fool or no fool, he managed to rob me of three 
golden sovereigns this evening, that I shall have to get 
back from him somehow or other next week. Three golden 
sovereigns to an infant like that! No matter; we’ll put it 
straight next week, I have no doubt. So you go away to 
bed now; and don’t forget to pray that your father may 
arise in a blessed and heavenly temper to-morrow morn - 
ing.” 


173 


SABINA ZEMBBA, 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WAYS AND MEANS. 

The answer of Sir Anthony Zembra to his daughter’s 
reluctant petition arrived just as she and. her husband 
were going out for the evening. -Mr. Foster had been pres- 
ented with a couple of stalls at one of the theaters in the 
Strand ; so he proposed that they should dine at a restaur- 
ant and go to the play afterward. But the appearance of 
this important letter drove both dinner and theater out 
of Fred Foster’s head. 

“Well,” said he, with affected indifference, as she 
glanced over the contents, “does Jupiter nod favorably, 
or is this another thunder-bolt?” 

Sabina did not answer ; her face had flushed suddenly — 
with anger or indignation ; and she folded the letter again 
quickly. 

“ Let me see it.” 

He held out his hand; she withdrew an inch or two. 

“ No,” she said, “ you need not read it. He refuses. I 
thought he would — so I suppose it doesn’t much matter.” 

“ And he says something about me that I am not to look 
at? Do you think I am a child or a fool? Let’s see it.” 

He took the letter from her, and opened it, and read as 
follows: 

“Dear Sabina, — I think you are aware that I never 
waste words. I told you that you were free to go your 
own way, and order your life as you thought best; and I 
named the sum I was willing to allow for your own per- 
sonal maintenance. I must decline to increase that sum in 
order to enable you to support a lot of paupers — including 
your husband. Yours truly, 

‘ ‘Anthony Zembra. ’ ’ 

He laughed aloud ; but it was a rueful kind of laugh. 

“Pretty mad, isn’t he? I thought the old gentleman 
would have become a little reasonable by now. Well, we’ll 
have to wait — as best we can.” 

It was the refusal of the money that chiefly concerned 
him ; the insult levelled at himself he did not seem to mind 
in the least. Indeed, he threw the letter carelessly on to 
the table, took up his hat, gloves, and cane again, and then, 
when he was ready, he held open the door to let Sebina 
pass out. 

“ We’ll have to hurry over this banquet,” said he, lightly, 
“ if you want to see the beginning of the piece.” 

All the same, he was rather silent during dinner, and he 
did not seem to care much for the little comedy they went 


Sabina zembra. 


173 


to see thereafter. When they got back to their rooms, and 
he had lit a cigar, and ensconced himself in a low easy- 
chair, he revealed what he had been thinking of all the 
evening by his first ejaculation. 

“It is a confounded nuisance,” he said, impatiently. 

“ Fred,” said she, “don’t you think we might manage 
to live a little more economically than we do, and so mend 
matters that way? Dining at restaurants is so expensive; 
if you didn’t mind being content with what they can do 
for us here, you might have your own wine sent in, and 
that would make a great difference. And you know you 
are so dreadfully extravagant about cabs— or careless, 
rather, I should say.” 

“Oh, it’s no use talking like that,” he interrupted. 
“ Saving twopence-farthing here or there won’t put mat- 
ters straight. What I want to know is what income we 
can definitely calculate on.” 

“ But you know,” she said. 

“What? What we have at present? Oh no, no; that 
won’t do at all; that I look on as provisional; it was al- 
ways understood to be so. Of course we can’t go on like 
this.” 

Well, she did not answer, though she might have re- 
minded him of her repeated warnings that Sir Anthony 
would prove implacable, of Avhich his cheerful optimism 
would take no heed. Nor did she further insist on their 
cutting their coat according to such cloth as they had in 
the meantime; nor did she venture to suggest that he 
might turn his attention to some pursuit more settled and 
profitable than playing billiard matches and backing 
horses. For these considerations were obvious, and no man 
likes to be preached at. 

“I am afraid,” said he, gloomily staring at his out- 
stretched legs and the tips of his patent-leather boots, 
“you’ve only made matters worse by writing that letter.” 

“I am sure I did not wish to write it,” she said, gently. 

“No, of course not. I don’t suppose you did. But peo- 
ple have often to do what they have no wish to do; and tho 
best way then is to do it with as good a grace as possible. 

I think you might have made that letter a little more com- 
placent. There was no use showing you did it unwillingly 
—of course he would say, ‘ Oh, this is a business communi- 
cation; and I’ll answer it as such.’ ” 

Sabina sat silent. It was the first time he had found 
fault with her. And she did not remind him that he had 
seen the letter before it was sent, and that, if it did not 
please him, he might have remonstrated then. 

Nor was he inclined to be much more cheerful on the fol- 
lowing morning as he stood at the window and idly 


m SABINA ZBMBRA. 

thrummba on the pane. Indeed, the Strand early on 
a Sunday morning is not a sight to raise any one’s spirits, 
even when it is flooded with London’s sickly sunshine. It 
is like a city of the dead. The shops are shut, the build- 
ings deserted, the pavements empty ; at long intervals a 
solitary four-wheeler — looking somehow as if it had been 
out all night, and got lost, and was groping its way slowly 
home— comes stealthily along the hushed wooden highway, 
the footfalls of the horse sounding faint and distant. Mr. 
Fred Foster turned from that depressing spectacle, and 
took to the sporting papers he had purchased the night 
before. 

And then he threw these aside. 

“ Look here, Sabie, something must be done. That let- 
ter has only made matters worse. Your father seems 
more determined in his unreasonableness than ever ; if you 
let him go on like that, it will become confirined, and then 
good-bye to everybody’s expectations. The mischief done 
by that letter must be undone somehow, and at once. Of 
course it isn’t about any immediate and temporary thing 
that I am thinking — I dare say one could always put one’s 
hand on a few sovereigns if there was need — it’s the long 
future that I’m looking to; and something must be done. 
And it isn’t merely doubling your allowance that has to be 
thought of — an additional twelve-pound-ten a month isn’t 
a great thing — it’s his attitude toward you. Your father 
is a very rich man ; you are his eldest daughter— the only 
one married; it’s absurd that he shouldn’t do something 
substantial and handsome for you. Why, how would he 
like it to be known?” 

“I don’t think he would care,” said Sabina, who knew 
her father a ^ood deal better than Mr. Fred Foster did. 

“I say it IS quite preposterous,” he continued, impa- 
tiently. “You may ask why I don’t appeal to my own 
people. But that’s different. They’re in the right mood; 
they’ll do the right thing by and by. I don’t want to press 
them just at present. My father is inclined to be cautious, 
and suspicious, even; but the mater's always on my side; 
they’ll be all right by and by. But this other affair is 
very serious, looking to the future. And if you ask me, I 
think there’s only one thing to be done.” 

“What, then?” she asked, though this talk about money 
rather depressed her, she hardly knew why. 

“ You should go and see him— this very day.” 

She started slightly. 

“Yes,” he continued, boldly, “that’s the proper way. 
Anybody can answer a letter; a letter can’t make an ap- 
peal ; a letter hasn’t to be faced. Here you have such a 
chance -your father in town ; you would be sure of seeing 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


ns 


him in the afternoon; and then if you went and told him 
how you were situated, and put the thing fairly and prop- 
erly before him, and were civil to him, how could he re- 
fuse?” 

She was looking at him, with a strange, startled look. 

” Fred,” she said, slowly, “would you have me go and 
ask money from my father, after what he called you in 
that letter?” 

He saw the surprise in her face, and the reproach, too ; 
perhaps it was the consciousness that these were not un- 
called-for that made him all the more impatient, and even 
vexed and angry. 

“Oh, it is all very well for you to have romantic no- 
tions,” he said, bluntly, “but you’ll find as you live longer 
in the world that they won’t wash. Do you think I care 
what your father thinks about me? Not one bit. He may 
call me a hundred names in a day if he likes. Would you 
like me to tell you what I think about him? Perhaps you 
wouldn’t. I dare say he wouldn’t care, either. But what’s 
that got to do with giving him the opportunity of doing 
the right thing by his own daughter? I don’t ask for his 
money. It’s as much your affair as mine. I want to give 
him the chance of acting like a reasonable human being; 
and it isn’t to-morrow or next day that I’m thinking about, 
but at a very long future, as I say.” 

Sabina’s eyes were downcast now; her face was some- 
what pale. 

“There are some women who are well off,” she said. 
“They can earn their own living without taking a penny 
from any one. I wish I could do that. I would work 
hard enough.” 

“ There you are with your romantics again,” ‘he com- 
plained. “What would you like to do? — stitch shirts at 
ninepence a day ? or stand behind the counter in a tele- 
graph office?” 

The maid-servant came in with breakfast, so the conver- 
sation had to cease. But he knew that he had spoken with 
unnecessary harshness; and when breakfast was over, 
and he had taken up one of the sporting journals, he be- 
gan to excuse himself a little. 

“I only want you to exercise a little common-sense, 
Sabie,” he said. “People must put ttieir pride in their 
pocket at times. Of course a noble self-respect is a very ' 
fine thing; and if I were a duke, with one hundred thou- 
sand pounds a year, I should worship myself like a little 
god, and expect everybody else to do the same. But poor 
folk like you an^me, my dear, can’t afford to have more 
tlian an ordinary, decent, Christian-like allowance of pride 
► -no, we shouldn’t have any if we are to be like Christians 


176 ^A^INA ZEMBTtA. 

—we should cultivate humility ; and if people call us ugly 
names, we should say that probably we deserve them. 
Bless you, what harm can the calling of names do you? 
Besides, he said nothing of the kind to you; I was the 
happy recipient ” 

“ Do you think I make any difference of that kind?” she 
said, quickly ; and there was no humility at all, but a 
wounded and indignant pride in the expression of the sensi- 
tive mouth and t& beautiful, clear eyes. “No, when I 
read that, it was as if — as if he had struck me !” 

“Oh,” said he, coolly, “you must cultivate a little 
wholesome indifference. You’ll never get through the 
world at all if you are so thin-skinned. Besides, if you 
think he has done you an injury, or me, or both of us, don’t 
you think it would only be magnanimous to give him the 
chance of atoning?” 

“ You would have me ask for money — after that insult?” 

He did not answer, for he did not wish to get angry 
again; so he turned to his newspaper, and Sabina took up 
a book and read till it was time to go to church. She went 
to church alone. 

When she returned they had lunch together, and Foster 
was again in a somewhat fretful mood. 

“ I don’t see why you should look at it in that way,” 
he said, just as if the subject had never been dropped. 
“The only thing that pride does is to keep up family 
quarrels. It’s absurd that your father and you should be 
on such terms ; and how is the situation to be altered so 
long as you have these high-flying notions? A.ny other 
girl would go to her father and make it up in five min- 
utes. Can’t you look at it that way? Put the money out 
of the question. Here is a Sunday ; your father will be at 
home this afternoon ; why not go and make up a family 
quarrel?” 

“ Fred,” she said, and the distress that was in her face 
was a piteous thing to see, “ don’t ask me to go!” 

“ Then you give the whole thing up?” he asked. 

“ You see what he says, ” she pleaded. “Could anything 
be more distinct?” 

“ Oh, very well — I suppose it’s all right.” 

After lunch he took up his hat and cane, and said to 
her: 

“ I’m going along to see Dick Baby, to fix about the train 
to Doncaster to-morrow. I suppose one must try to pick 
up a few sovereigns somehow.” 

“ Shall I wait till you come back?” she asked. 

“ Oh, no: not if you have anything to do. Most likely I 
sha’n’t be back till about seven.” 

When he had gone she sat for some little time ponder- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


177 


ing over these things. And perhaps there was some cause 
for his vexation? Perhaps she had not told him clearly 
enough what manner of man her father was, and warned 
him with sufficient distinctness that any resolve of his 
would be final? And perhaps when he asked her to go and 
make a personal appeal to her father he did not quite un- 
derstand the humiliation that would involve? Men were 
less quick to perceive such thixigs than women. If he had 
known what that interview must necessarily mean, surely 
he would not have ask^d her to go? 

By and by— and still in a somewhat thoughtful mood— 
she put on her things and went out, taking the under- 
ground railway down to Kensington. She had just turned 
into Kensington Square when she caught sight of Janie 
coming away from the house, and it was very grateful to 
her (for she was a little depressed, somehow) to notice the 
quiet look of pleasure that instantly appeared in Janie’s 
wistful eyes. 

“ Oh, Sabie, this is so kind of you! All the morning I 
kept saying to myself, ‘ I wonder if Sabie will come this 
afternoon?’ ” 

“And that is why you left the house?” Sabina said, with 
a smile. 

“ Oh, but I meant to be back in time. I did not expect 
you so early.” 

“And where are you off to?” 

“Will you go with me, Sabie?” she said, eagerly. “I 
was going up to Walter Lindsay’s studio. I had a letter 
! from him yesterday morning, and he reminded me that I 
offered to go up from time to time and see that everyting 
was going on all right. Won’t you come? It will be a 
nice walk. And mother’s lying down just now. We’ll 
( have tea when we come back.” 

i And so Janie found herself once more walking along 
; Kensington High Street with her beloved Sabie, and up the 
Camden Hill Road, and over to Notting Hill; and proud 
and pleased she was, and on this occasion (as on many a 
I former one) all the talk was of Walter Lindsay. 

“And where is Mr. Lindsay now?” Sabina asked, to 
humor her. 

“ Still in New York. He is having a caravan built for 
liimself — a studio on wheels, you know — and when that is 
' quite ready, he is going away— oh, I don’t know how far. 

But he is to send me his address from time to time — just 
' in case there should be any news for him; and you know 
i the news he will look for— it’s news about you, Sabie.” 

‘ ‘ Don’t talk nonsense, ” Sabina said, but not ill-naturedly. 
“ What news could he waiit to hear about me?” 


178 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“That you are well and happy — I think that’s all he 
would want to hear.” 

“ You are a very sentimental young woman, Janie, and 
imagine things,” Sabina said. “Now, I want you to talk 
about something practical. You remember taking me into 

a place in Oxford Street — an art-furniture place ” 

“ Maragliano’s?” 

“ Yes. You remember the hand-painted china we saw — 
the dessert service, and so on — now, do they pay well for 
that kind of work?— would it be worth while for any one 
to try and get some of it to do?” 

“ I know Mr. Hutton, the manager; I will ask him,” said 
Janie, never doubting that this was but another of Sabina’s 
numerous schemes for benefiting somebody or other. 

“I suppose they have inferior sets,” Sabina continued, 

“ where very high artistic skill would not be necessary. I 
used to draw and paint a little, years ago. I could copy 
things, anyway. ^ There were some flowers on vases that I \ 
think I could do. ’’ ' 

“You?” said Janie, in amazement. “You yourself, ; 
Sabie? What do you want to do that kind of thing 1 
for?” 

“Well, the truth is,” she answered. “I’m afraid that 7 
Fred and I will have to pinch a little. We sha’n’t be very ^ 
well off. you know, and I was wondering if I could help ; I \ 
might fill in a little time that way at night if I were clever f 
enough. I wonder if it is difficult.” • 

“Filling in time? — yes, you are so idle! And you would I- 
work at night, too, when you get home dead tired ! What J 
next, Sabie?” her friend said, indignantly. And then she J 
added, with a sharp look, “ AVhose scheme is that?” » 

“ My own, of course. Will you ask Mr. Hutton if he |(| 
will let me have one or two simple things? I don’t expect Jj 
much— there are too many unemployed young women look- a 
ing out for work of that kind— but even if it was a little, I m 
should be glad. ” 9 

“I know this,” said Janie, boldly— and as they were* 
come to the gate of the house, she paused there for a mo- B 
ment, and regarded Sabina without fear— “ I know this, , 
Sabie, that I could get you one customer who would buy* 
all that you could paint, even if he had to lock it up in* 
chests and never see it again; yes, and pay you like a king 
for it, even if he had to sell house and land and pictures J 
and everything. Ah, you don’t know what he said toff- 
mother — that time of the supper in this very house — or did 
I tell you?— about the falcon?— and how he envied the 
Florentine young gentlenuin who had the chance of sacri- 
ficing his falcon for the sake of his sweetheart?” 

“ But what has that to do with me?” Sabina said. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


179 


“You don’t know, then, that that supper was given all 
in your honor, and that everything he could get in England 
was got for you; and I think he was quite sorry he wasn’t 
poor that he might make some real sacrifice for you? Ah, 
well, Sabie, I will say this for you— you made him very 
happy that one evening.” 

“You are incorrigible,” Sabina said, good-humoredly. 
“ Why, you may depend on it that at this very minute 
your hero is making love to one of those American girls — 
they're pretty enough, to judge by those of them who come 
over here. ’ ’ 

Janie would not answer; she rang the bell, and they were 
admitted. The housekeeper was very civil ; offered them 
tea; was pleased to hear news of Mr. Lindsay ; and reported 
the small incidents that had happened since he left. Then 
Janie got the key of the studio, and she and Sabina passed 
through the little garden, opened the heavy door, and en- 
tered the gaunt, strange-looking, musty-smelling place. 

“He was right — it wants a little airing occasionally. 
Different from the night that you were here, Sabie, isn’t 
it? See, there is the Chippendale cabinet in the corner; but 
you won’t find in it the rock-crystal cup you drank out of 
— oh, no, that’s away in safety with his other valuables. 
Maybe he has taken it to America with him.” 

“Do you know, Janie,” Sabina said, out of pure mis- 
chief, “ I am beginning to believe that you are in love with 
Mr. Lindsay yourself?” 

“Don’t say that, Sabie, even in joke. Besides ” 

She hesitated. But was not this a rare opportunity^ for 
revealing a great secret? 

“ Besides what?” 

Janie’s pale face flushed, and the wistful eyes were a 
trifle beseeching. 

“There’s some one else!” Sabina cried. “So that’s it? 
Oh, Janie, why did you never tell me? Or is it quite a new 
affair? Well, then, who is he?” 

“ Did you never guess, Sabie?” 

“Never, never!” 

“Not when you saw Philip Drexel coming about the 
house?” 

Now, this Philip Drexel was a young figure-painter, 
whose ambitious style and defiant mannerisms had at- 
tracted some little notice, though Sabina had paid no 
great heed to him. ’ But now she was greatly interested, 
and would know all about the engagement, though Janie 
protested there was no such thing, but only an understand- 
ing that was not to be made known to anybody as yet. 
And Sabina had abundant praises for the young painter, 
and would make Janie promise to bring him to the rooms 


^180 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

in the Strand, so that she might better get to know him, 
and altogether was highly pleased. . , , ^ • 

“But you know, Sabie,” said the honest-minded Janie, 
with a demure smile, “ I’m not too proud about it. I 
don’t think his approval of me is too much of a compli- 
ment. You know they’ve asked him to send in two or 
three pictures to the Grosvenor Gallery next year ; and— 
and he came to mother and asked her if I would give him 
some sittings for one of them — ‘ Mariana' in the South ’ it 
is to be— and he said something about , me being quite an 
ideal type for him. Well, I don’t think it’s top compli- 
mentary — do you, Sabie? — for you know he paints such 
dreadfully ugly women.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so at all,” Sabina said, instantly. 
“Why, I’ve heard people speak most highly of his pict- 
ures. And of course he’ll make his Mariana ever so much 
prettier than any of the others.” 

“Sabie, you can ’say such nice things!” the girl said; 
and gratitude was near bringing tears to her eyes, for she 
knew that she was not very beautiful. 

Well, the promised visit had been paid to both house and 
studio, and they went back to Kensington Square and had 
tea with the old people, and in due course Sabina returned 
to the lodging in the Strand. Mr. Foster, Avhen he came 
in, announced that he would be going down to Doncaster 
by an early train the next day. He made further reference 
to the project of her seeking a personal interview with her 
father; though once or twice he threw out hints that he 
hoped the trip to Doncaster would repay him — otherwise 
things might be getting a little “tight.” Sabina, on her 
part, made no reference to her vague fancy that slie might 
earn something by painting on porcelain; indeed; if the 
scheme were practicable at all, she would have preferred 
sitting up at night to do the work, when no one knew. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

AT A MUSIC-HALL. 

However, as it turned out, Fred Foster returned from 
his visit to Yorkshire in the most radiant good humor; his 
Doncaster speculations had turned out very well indeed, 
and not only did he faitlifully pay back to Sabina every 
farthing that he owed her, but also he promised that after 
settling-day she should have twenty-five pounds to be 
devoted entirely to her charitable enterprises. Nay more; 
he said that as he did not expect to be away from town 
again till the Newmarket Second October Meeting, he 
would go with her on her rounds and see how she was 
getting along; and he thought he would begin by having 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


181 


little serious conversation with a certain non- working man 
downi Hammersmith way about whom she had told him, 
and who was neglecting his wife and family in a shameless 
fashion. 

“Or, don’t you think that a thundering good licking 
Avould knock the laziness out of him?” he asked, cheer- 
fully. 

“I don’t know,” said Sabina. “But I am afraid it 
would not look well if I had to go to the police-court to 
bail out my husband. What would Mr. Bridge think of 
me? And, you know, he is very good to me. I can 
always have an officer of the court with me if I want to 
make any inquiries ” 

“Oh, I am going to be your officer of the court,” he 
said, gayly, “and we’ll begin to-morrow morning. In the 
meantime we’re going to have a little celebration of our 
good-luck this evening. Captain Baby has gone up to the 
Bristol to order a bit of dinner— just the four of us, you 
know — Baby, and Johnny Bussell, and you, and I ” 

“ Please leave me out, Fred,” she said, at once. 

“Why?” 

“Oh, well, I should simply be in the way. You don’t 
want a woman at a man’s dinner-party of that kind. It 
would look ridiculous. Besides, you, will have your own 
affairs to talk over. I shall do very well here ; I find no 
difficulty in passing the time.” 

“ Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Why, the whole thing 
has been got up to please you. It was Baby’s proposal, 
and I expressly accepted the invitation for you. Look 
ridiculous? why, it will be in a private r<^m; we shall be 
quite by ourselves. Come, Sabie, don’t be a kill- joy just 
as things are looking a little brighter.” 

“Oh, very well,” she said, good-naturedly. “ But I be- 
lieve you would have a merrier party without me.” 

“Don’t you think anything of the kind,” he said. 
“ You’re not one of the straight- laced ones. And if you 
knew how glad I shall be to have a bit of decent dinner— 
to take the Doncaster taste out of my mouth. Perhaps 
you yourself wouldn’t like to live on ham sandwiches, and 
pork pies, and butter-scotch?” 

Sabina did not answer this question, for she had to go 
and smarten herself up somewhat. Very much rather 
would she have stayed at home; but she was pleased to 
see her husband in" such high spirits ; and she certainly 
had no wish to play the part of kill- joy. Indeed, she 
made herself as neat as possible; she would do him credit. 

Nor did Sabina’s presence seem to act as any damper at 
the modest little festivities that took place at the Bristol 
Hotel. All three of her companions appeared to be highly 


182 


SABINA ZKMBRA. 


pleased with the result of their Yorkshire trip; even the 
vacant-eyed Johnny Russell— wliose flabby and clean 
shaven face was a little more flushed than usual— ceased 
to be voiceless, and was nebulously anxious to interest 
Babina in one or two topics not connected with the turf. 
It was Captain Raby who kept the coolest head ; but to 
make up for that he seemed bent on encouraging Fred 
Foster’s outbursts of gayety; and, of course, as host, it 
was his duty to pass the wine. 

“You don’t know, Mrs. Foster,” said he, with that fa- 
miliar stare that invariably caused Sabina to lower her 
eyes — “you don’t know what your husband did for us 
dWn there in the north. He was quite a blessing to us. 
After this week he ought to be called The Infallible.” 

“Why, that is the name of my paper !” Fred Foster cried 
at once. “Didn’t you know I was going to publish a rac- 
ing newspaper? Just you wait and you’ll see. And of 
course I’m going to run the business of sporting prophet as 
well— here, Johnny, lend me your pencil, and we’ll get out 
the manifesto: we’re all in it, you know, for I never desert 
my friends.” 

The apathetic young man detached a massive gold pencil 
from his watch-guard and handed it over; and for some 
little time Mr. Foster was engaged in the throes of literary 
composition, while Captain Raby considerately endeavored 
to amuse Sabina. At last the back of the menu was pretty 
well filled, and then Mr. Foster read out his address to the 
public ; 

“‘ilfr. Fred Foster, proprietor of the Infallible and 
Sporting Telegraphist. 

“ ‘Mr. Foster may now confidently appeal to the racing 
public for their continued support, as his marvelous and 
repeated success beats all previous records (see my last 
year’s Czarevitch week, and the brilliant feat of pfacing 
the first, second, and third for the Two Thousand, Derby, 
and St. Leger). A special number of the Infallible, devoted 
to the Middle Park Plate, is now ready, and for the nom- 
inal sum of five shillings will be supplied to all applicants, 
along with subsequent issues to end of season. 

“ ‘ Finals.— Neivmarket Finals. 

“ ‘Mr, Fred Foster, having just returned from a profes- 
sional visit to the chief training centers, is prepared to give 
sound and reliable advice on all the great races yet to be 
run, but would especially advise his patrons to secure his 
final telegrams for the Newmarket Meeting, at the trifling 
outlay of one sovereign for the week. Mr. Fred Foster is 
above the vulgar arts of the ordinary prophet, scorns to 
advertise himself by newspaper puffing, and obtains his 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


183 


information without chicanery. Address, Mr. Fred Foster, 
No. - Strand, W. C.’ 

“There, now; how’s that?” he asked, regarding the 
paper with some pride. 

“I think ‘ God save the Queen ’ should come in at the 
end,” observed Mr. Russell. 

“Let’s have a drink over it, anyway. Pass the cham- 
pagne, Raby. And here’s the health of Squire Tipton— 
may his shadow never grow less!” 

They had lit their cigars by this time (with many 
apologies to Mrs. Foster), and then coffee came in, and 
liquors; and there was a period of comparative repose— 
Fred Foster sipping maraschino and occasionally hazarding 
a remark to Johnny Russell about the probable starters at 
Lichfield and Manchester; Mr. Russell listening in a vacu- 
ous silence, and also sipping maraschino ; Captain Raby en- 
tirely devoting his conversation to Sabina, if that can bo 
called conversation which was chiefly a series of stories, 
more or less discreditable, about very distinguished people. 
Mr. Fred Foster began to find this slow. 

“Look here,” he said, “we can’t talk horses all the 
evening.” 

“I quite agree with you,” said Captain Raby, instantly. 

“I propose we go and get a private box at the ” said 

he, naming a well-known music-hall. “ We can smoke just 
as well there; and tliere’s always something going on. 
There are those children on the bicycles — very pretty that 
is. And Kate Tremayne— well, it’s rather early for her yet, 
but she’ll be on by and by, and she’s always fun. What 
do you say ?’ ’ 

He addressed Captain Raby; that gentleman was regard- 
ing Sabina with a look in which there was a little affected 
surprise and amusement. 

“Oh, that is not for me to decide,” said he, gravely. 
“It is for Mrs. Foster to say whether she would like to go. ” 

It was a kind of challenge. A hundred times would she 
rather have gone back home, and busied herself with her 
own affairs; but that half -scornful look of Captain Raby’s 
had annoyed her, and she said at once : 

“ Of course I will go, Fred, if you want me to go with 
you. But wouldn’t you rather go by yourselves?” 

“ Oh, no, no,” the phlegmatic young man said, with un- 
usual warmth. 

“ I’m afraid we can’t get a domino and mask for you, 
Mrs. Foster,” said Captain Raby, smiling in his saturnine 
fashion. “ And yet they would be useful if they were 
allowed. I don’t think you would care to be seen at/ 
the ” 


184 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


Taking no heed of him, she calmly awaited her hus- 
band’s decision; and he said forthwith, and raither im- 
patiently : 

“ Of course you won’t be seen at all! We’ll put you in 
a corner of the box — there’s a curtain— of course you won’t 
be seen. And don’t you believe all that’s said against 
music-halls by people who have never been near them. 
There’s sometimes very good music. And anyway it 
passes an hour— and— and you can smoke— and— and Kate 
Tremayne— well, if she isn’t funny enough for any- 
thing ” 

“We shall have Mrs. Foster’s opinion of Miss Tremayne 
by and by,” observed Captain Eaby; and the tone in 
which he spoke more than ever determined Sabina that 
she would make the best of everything she saw or heard 
in that music-hall, Miss Tremayne included. 

And yet it was a hard task, for anything more con- 
temptible — anything more insulting to the commonest in- 
telligence— than the amusement provided in this place of 
entertainment it would be impossible to imagine. The 
mean knowingness, the swagger, the vulgar braggadocio 
with which the performers appealed to their audience, 
were a sorry thing to see and hear; and indeed Sabina, 
safely ensconced in the corner there, and looking abroad 
over that mass of young men and lads, and young women, 
too, all drinking in this wretched stuff, was moved far 
more to pity than to any sort of disdain. When the person 
on the stage— a big, over-weighted, crapulous-looking 
creature he was, with a head like an unboiled haggis, in- 
knees, and an enormous paunch—sang his famous song of 
“Englishmen — one to ten,” those white-faced, narrow- 
chested, gin-bemused boys took up the chorus with him: 

“ We fought before; we’ll fight again; 

We’ll sweep the land; we’ll sweep the main; 

We’re Englishmen, 

And, one to ten, 

We’ll stand and bid the world come on.” 

“ Poor wretches, ” Sabina said, half to herself, “there’s 
not much fighting stuff in them.” 

However, there was little that was really offensive in this 
blatant pseudo- patriotism; it was during subsequent per- 
formances that Sabina’s face fell, and she began bitterly to 
regret having, from a passing wish to defend her husband, 
ever come to such a place at all. Moreover, he had left her 
now. Just as Miss Rosa Lee had finished her favorite song 
of “ Tandem Tommy ” (Miss Lee appeared in a Newmarket 
coat of yellow satin, with enormous brass buttons, a 
jockey’s cap on her head, and a coaching-whip in her hand; 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 185 

and her, also, the audience aided with the well-known re- 
frain; 

“ And the chorus-girl she kisses me, 

As we spin along the road ’')» 

and was retiring from the stage amid loud applause, there 
was a tapping at the door of the box. The next moment 
there appeared a gentleman in evening dress, with a large 
diamond in his shirt-front, and a very shiny hat. It was 
clear that he had not expected to find ‘ a lady in the box, 
for the moment he caught sight of Sabina he said, “ Oh, I 
beg your pardon,” and was about to retire. 

“Come along, Morgan,” Fred Foster said at once. 
” Let me introduce you to my wife — Mr. Morganti.” 

“ Mr, Morganti gracefully removed his shiny hat, show- 
ing the diamonds on his fingers the while ; but he seemed 
a little disconcerted, and still inclined to withdraw. 

“Do you want to see me, old man?” Fred Foster asked, 
getting up from his seat. 

“ If you can spare me a couple of minutes.” 

When they had gone away together. Captain Raby said 
to Sabina, with his peculiar smile : 

“ I suppose you don’t know who that was who had the 
pleasure of being introduced to you just now? That is Mr. 
Morganti, the manager of this establishment. Mr. Mor- 
ganti is a very important person, and his acquaintance is 
esteemed a high honor by many people. I am told that 
the young ladies who are engaged to perform here become 
very affable when you are introduced to them by Mr. Mor- 
ganti, and that they will condescend to drink a little 
champagne, and even bring their husbands to join in, that 
is, when they’ve got one; and you may perhaps be allowed 
to drive the whole family-party out to Richmond of a Sun- 
day. They will entertain you certainly, if their wit lacks 
a little refinement.” 

“ I dare say there are as honest and well-intentioned peo- 
ple among them as among any other class,” Sabina said, 
coldly. 

“ Intentions? Oh, yes! Their intentions are all right, I 
suppose. Their manners are a little — well, affable. I 
should not wonder if at this very moment Miss Rosa Lee 
was begging your husband to give her a good thing for the 
Czarevitch. They’re very fond of racing, the people about 
music-halls. Miss Kate Tremayne, who is about due now, 
was married to Jim Older, the jockey. Was married; Jim 
got out of that engagement, luckily, and Miss Tremayne is 
free to let her fancies roam. I am informed she is a very 
lively young person.” 

Sabina’s heart was hot within her with vexation, but 
she was too proud to show her anger. And how could 


186 SABWA ZEMBRA, 

she forbid him to talk to her? And what escape was 
there for her? Her husband was away. The phlegmatic 
Russell was wholly engrossed with the stage, staring vacu- 
ously at the successive performers, to the neglect of his 
brandy-and-soda. Moreover, had she not herself to blame? 
Had she not come of her own accord into this polluted at- 
mosphere? 

However, she obtained a temporary respite; for now 
Miss Tremayne appeared; and Miss Tremayne was so pop- 
ular a favorite that even Captain Raby condescended to 
bestow a little attention on her. She was attired in all 
kinds of cheap finery ; her name was Bank Holiday Ann ; 
she was supposed to be a maid-servant set free for a jollifi- 
cation on Hampstead Heath; and she proceeded— in a 
voice about as musical as the sharpening of a saw — to de- 
scribe the adventures of herself and her companions, there 
and elsewhere. As these included the getting drunk of the 
whole party, their being locked up for the night, and their 
appearance before a magistrate the next morning, there 
was no lack of incident ; while the long-spoken passages, 
delivered in a rapid jargon of Cockney accent and Cockney 
slang, seemed to find much favor with the audience, who 
also heartily joined in the chorus: 

, “ Bank Holiday Annie, 

Bank Holiday Ann, 

Up the Heath, 

And down the Heath, 

And round the Heath she ran. 

When the p’leeceman copt her, 

She got him one on the eye; 

Oh, Annie, I’ll tell your mother, 

Oh, fie, Annie, fie!” 

But the idiocy of this performance was refinement itself 
compared with the “humor” of the leering cad who fol- 
lowed, whose vile innuendoes were so obvious that even 
Captain Raby had to talk rapidly to Sabina, about all kinds 
of things, to distract her notice. Probably, if Sabina had 
understood, she would have been a little bit thankful ; but 
his attentions to her seemed now to have reached the 
height of persecution; and as the atmosphere and sur- 
roundings and associations of the place were grown quite 
insufferable, she could only impatiently ask herself when 
her husband was coming to take her away. At last she 
said: 

“ Captain Raby, I wish to go. Do you think you could 
find my husband?” 

“ Well,” said he, blandly, “ I am not an habitue here; I 
understand that Mr. Morganti has a private room some- 
where, where he keeps excellent cigars and spirits; but I 


SABWA ZEMBRA, 


18 ? 


ha\^e not the honor of the entree into it. No doubt your 
husband is amusing himself well enough. Don’t you think 
you had better stay ? It ought to interest you especially to 
study the kind of amusements that are popular with the 
masses of the people. Can’t I get you something — some 
coffee?” 

Sabina was rather paler about the lips than usual. 

” Mr. Eussell!” she said. 

“I beg your pardon?” the younger man said, turning 
round at once. 

Then she drew back ; she had no wish to be left alone 
with Captain Raby, and he, noticing her hesitation, in- 
stantly rose. 

” Oh, if you really wish to have your husband found, I 
will do my best,” he said; and he put on his crush-hat and 
left the box. 

In a few minutes he returned with Fred Foster, who was 
in a gay mood. 

” Well, what have you all been doing? You’re not going 
yet, Sabie? I’ve been transacting a little business with my 
noble friend, Morgy ” 

“Was Miss Tremayne a party to the transaction?” asked 
Captain Raby, with a glance at Sabina. 

“ Kate Tremayne is a rattling clever girl — that’s what I 
call her. All London has got hold of that chorus. She'll 
make a pot of money in the provinces. Do you really want 
to go, Sabie?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then we’ll all go,” said Johnny Russell, rising. “I’ve 
had enough for one.” 

At the front door, when the cab was called up, she was 
for parting with these two acquaintances with a polite 
bow; but both of them insisted on shaking hands with her, 
which ceremony she performed with a marked coldness. 
As soon as they were in the hansom, and were driving 
away, Fred Foster said to her: 

“ Well, what’s the matter now?” 

“It is dt no consequence.” 

“ Come, out with it! I saw you had got on your high- 
tragedy air. I guessed as much from what Raby said.” 

“ You have no right to ask me to meet a man like that,” 
Sabina was stung into saying. His conduct, his manner, 
is insufferable: And as for that place where we have been, 
why did you allow me to go there? You knew what it 
was — I did not.” 

“ You said you wanted to go.” 

“ I said I would go if you wished me to go; I wanted to 
show them that what was right for you was right for me; 
do you think I would stand by and have Captain Raby 


188 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


openly sneering at you? But you needn’t have taken me 
to such a place for all that.” 

‘‘Oh, you’re one of the impossible ones,’’ said he, but 
with perfect good-humor. “I know what has set your 
back up— the appearance in that box opposite of the gor- 
geous creature in green velvet and diamonds. Well, her 
get-up was striking, I admit ; and so was her yellow hair 
arid her fan; but you know you can’t compel everybody to 
tone down their appearance. Besides, I made certain you 
couldn’t see the woman at all.” 

‘‘ I did not see any such person,” Sabina said, with ab- 
solute truth. 

“Then what’s the matter? There was some very good 
singing. That sketch of Kate Tremayne’s was awfully 
clever — as like the thing as could be; it was too like for 
me, indeed; I couldn’t follow half what she said. Low 
comedy, of course, but still comedy ; and a precious deal 
nearer real life than the comedy of the regular stage. I 
didn’t see anything to object to in the performance.” 

“Perhaps you were otherwise occupied,” she said. 
“ You did not consider how pleasant it was for me to sit in 
that box and have Captain Baby suggesting that you were 
at the time making bets with the women behind the 
stage.” 

“Baby will have his joke,” he answered cheerfully. 
“ He was simply roaring when he came and told me of the 
expression that came over your face. And what there was 
to offend you I am sure I can’t imagine.” 

Indeed, he was bent on laughing off the whole affair; 
and when they had got liome, aud when he had donned his 
dressing-gown and slippers, and lit a cigar, and mixed 
some whisky and water, and drawn his chair in toward 
the fire, he proceeded to remonstrate with her, but in a 
perfectly friendly and pleasant way, about her cultivation 
of impossible ideals and standards of conduct. 

“The trouble with you, Sabie, is simply this,” he ob- 
served, “that you are a great deal too good for this 
wretched and sinful world.” 


CHAPTEB XXIV. 

DIVERGENT WAYS. 

But next morning found him in a very different mood. 
He was silent and surly at first; then he began to remon- 
strate with her for her priggishness, as he chose to call it; 
finally he adopted a distinctly injured tone. 

“Of course a man doesn’t like to be laughed at. I 
shouldn’t wonder if, the next time I see these two, it was 
to be ‘Holloa, Foster, how’s Saint Cecilia? Come down 


SABINA ZE3IBRA, 


189 


from the clouds again? You shouldn’t take that kind of a 
person to a music-hall.’ Well, I’m not any fonder of 
music halls than other people; but I didn’t see anything 
to offend you so mightily ; and as for Raby and Russell — 
what did you expect? You expect too much, that’s where 
the trouble is. You want people to live up to ideal stand- 
ards that are quite impossible. Wouldn’t it be a little 
more sensible to take the world as it is? And it’s all the 
more extraordinary in your case; for you haven’t been 
brought up in a glasshouse or a nunnery; you’ve seen 
plenty of life ” 

“ I have seen a great deal of poverty, if that is what you 
mean,” Sabina said, calmly. “But poverty is not con- 
temptible.” 

“ What is contemptible, then? Whatever doesn’t come 
up to your perfectly impossible standards? Well, I prefer 
to take the world as it is. I never professed to live in a 
select circle of archangels; I never met any; ordinary men 
and women are good enough for me.” 

She did not answer him ; perhaps he had cause to com- 
plain; and perhaps, too, that was the reason he made no 
further reference to his proposal that he should accom- 
pany her down to Hammersmith ; on the contrary, when 
he had lit his after- breakfast cigar, and got his coat and 
hat and cane, he merely said that he would be back as 
usual in the evening, and so he went his way. 

Sabina was a little down-hearted that day, Janie Wy- 
gram thought; and as they were walking along she con- 
fessed that sometimes she grew dispirited, and began to 
doubt the efficacy of the network of charitable associations 
that were trying to do something to lighten the misery of 
the great city. Perhaps it was true that the weakest must 
go to the wall ; that the vast social forces must work out 
their own salvation; and that all attempts to interfere 
with them were useless, or useful only in handing on a 
legacy of incompetence to the next generation. Of course 
she did not say so in these words, but that was the drift of 
what she said ; and very much astonished and grieved was 
Janie Wygram to find her in any such hopeless mood. 

“ Why, tfiat’s not like you at all, Sabie!” she exclaimed. 
“ Don’t you remember what you said— that one single act 
of kindness done every da^^ in the week made the world 
just so much better? I don’t think you see yourself half 
the good you do; but I know what it would be to me, if I 
were lying ill, to have you come in and talk to me fora min- 
ute or two. Oh, yes, I have heard plenty of that kind of ar- 
gument— that charity only perpetuates sickness, and creates 
paupers, and so forth. But I don’t see how trying to make 
people well is helping on sickness; and it isn’t making 


190 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


paupers to get people into situations who would otherwise 

be idle; and as for the social forces ” Here Janie 

paused for a moment, for the subject was a large one. 
“Well, I don’t know much about the social forces, but I 
should think if they saw ragged brats taken out of the gut- 
ter and washed and clothed and educated, and turned into 
those fine young fellows on board the Chichester and the 
Arethusa, Veil, then, the social forces ought to be very 
much obliged. Oh, don’t you give in, Sabie, whoever gives 
in. If you only knew what you are in many and many 
and many a home!” 

Settling-day came and went; but Fred Foster forgot 
about the twenty -five pounds he had promised Sabina; and 
she did not choose to remind him; she would rather try, 
by practising the most rigid economy, to get along with 
what she had. And at this time, indeed, Mr. Foster had 
need of all available funds; for the racing world was very 
busy just then, as it always is toward the close of the sea- 
son; and he was away a good deal in various parts of the 
country. He went down to the Manchester Meeting. 
Then came Newmarket, where his usual good luck deserted 
him; both the Czarevitch and the Middle Park Plate hit 
him hard. She heard of his having paid a flying visit to 
Scotland. He was for a few days at the Duke of Exmin- 
ster’s training quarters at Helmingsley. Then he returned 
to Newmarket for the Cambridgeshire Handicap. And al- 
ways, amid these various and continued engagements, when 
he chose to run up to town, to those snug little rooms in the 
Strand, Sabina was ready with the kindest welcome for 
him, and was assiduous about his small comforts, and there 
was no look of reproach or of appeal in the calm and serious 
and beautiful face. 

“ Oh, mother, what has come over Sabie?” Janie Wyg- 
ram said one evening (and now there was another admitted 
to these colloquies ; a young man with a paleface, large, 
earnest eyes, and long hair ; Philip Drexel was his name ; 
and he was no impatient listener; when either these two, 
or any others of the women down Kensington way, were 
singing the praise of Sabina, as sometimes they did, the 
young artist’s voice was eager in the chorus ;*and he stood 
unrebuked by Janie; nay, he knew it was the one sure way 
to win her favor). “ She has been quite different of late,” 
Janie continued. “ No one sees it as I do; for no one is so 
much with her. She never laughes now — never, never; 
and she is never impatient and masterful with the people, 
or scolding, as she used to be ; but always so gentle with 
them; and so grave and compassionate; and her face— well 
—well, her face, I think, is more beautiful than ever; but 
there is a kind of sadness and loneliness in it that J can’t 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


191 


understand; and sometimes she will walk ever so far with 
you without a single word, though the moment you speak 
she is as i)atient and kind as ever. I don’t think he actu- 
ally ill-treats her ” 

Here Janie’s mild eyes flashed, and her lips were rather 
pale. 

“No, if I thought that, I would get Philip to go and 
smash him, or I would— I would ask Walter Lindsay to 
come across the Atlantic and kill him. I don’t think it’s 
that ; but she is very much alone ; and perhaps her mar- 
riage hasn’t turned out what she thought it would— though 
she won’t allow a single word to be said. Why, she is not 
the least like the Sabie Zembra we used to know! Don’t 
you remember her— so merry and proud and courageous, 
and just bewildering people with her pretty face and her 
good- humor. That was when Walter Lindsay wanted to 
paint her — the maiden queen, you know, in scarlet and 
ermine — was it from Chaucer the lines were?” 

Janie should have remembered that there was another 
artist listening who had also thought of Sabina as the 
central figure of certain half -imagined compositions. Even 
at this moment was there not before his mind some faint 
and wavering vision of 

“ The groves 
Where the Lady Mary is. 

With her five handmaidens, whose names 
Are five sweet symphonies, 

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

Circlewise sit they, with bound locks, 

And forehead garlanded; 

Into the fine cloth white like flame 
Weaving the golden thread, 

To fashion the birth-robes for tfiem 
Who are just born, being dead.” 

“And there’s another strange thing,” continued Janie, 
yvho was never tired of talking about her best-beloved, “she 
has nothing like the nerve she used to have. You know 
Sabie^vas never very sentimental ; I used to think her a 
little too robust in that direction. But now a very trifling 
thing will bring tears to her eyes, though she is desper- 
ately anxious to hide it. The other day we were going 
through Stanhope Gardens. There was a window open, 
and some children were singing, with the mother leading 
on a harmonium ; and I stopped Sabie fora minute. Well, 
it was, ‘Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;’ and, do 
you know, the singing of the children quite upset her, and 
she went on quickly so that I should not see. You know, 
mother, that’s not like Sabie; she never was sentimental; 
I believe it is loneliness that is breaking her heart. There’s 


193 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


that little boy Watson, that was run over; he came back 
the other day from Brighton — she had sent him to the Con- 
valescent Home for a fortnight — and she went down to see 
how he was. Well, it was a little bit affecting to see how 
bewildered he had been by the sight of the sea, for he has 
never been out of London in his life ; but Sabie is used to 
such thing; and I’ve seen her pretty sharp sometimes with 
women for crying aimlessly ; but this time when she said 
to the poor little fellow, ‘ Well, Johnny, tell me what you 
thought of the sea when you first saw it;’ and when he 
said, looking up at her, ‘ Please, miss, I thought it was like 
’evin, ’ she stopped for a minute uncertain— -of course, not 
wanting to break down— and then she had to turn away, 
and I saw her dry her eyes. Mother, it is not the least like 
Sabie to be in a nervous state like that, is it? — she who was 
always so full of coumge, and bright humor, and brisk- 
ness. Of course, there is one thing; you know she had 
sent him down for a fortnight; and it’s five shillings a 
week at the Black Rock House; and I know she was de- 
bating whether she should not let him have another fort- 
night; and then she thought she could not afford the other 
ten shillings. And, perhaps, when she saw what a treat it 
had been to the poor little fellow, she was sorry she had 
not given him the other fortnight— getting the money 
somehow.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wy gram, bitterly, “and her father 
rolling in wealth, and her husband -drinking champagne 
with his dinner every night in the week, and that poor 
creature saving every penny to do good to others. It’s 
little the world knows how selfish the people may be that 
are drinking wine a^nd flaunting about in carriages ” 

“I’m sure they might flaunt about in carriages, or drink 
all the wine in the world, if only they’ll make Sabie a little 
happier,” Janie said, wistfully. “ I think she grows more 
like an angel every day, in her goodness and gentleness; 
but do you imagine I like it? No, I don’t. I would rather 
have her bad and wicked ” 

“Janie!” the mother remonstrated; but she added, with 
a smile: “ Well, it’s no use talking like that about Sabina, 
for it can’t mean anything at all.” 

“Very well, then, mother, I will say this only— that I 
wish she was a little more like the Sabie Zembra we used 
to know. Sometimes, when I look at her now, my heart 
is pretty heavy about her. And I am not as near to her 
as I used to be; she seems to live within herself, somehow ; 
and there’s never a word said; her husband’s name is 
hardly ever mentioned— when it is, Sabie is always on his 
side, and has excuses for his being away, and all that. 
But she is not like our Sabie that we used to know.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


im 

Now, if Sabina was ever ready with excuses for her hus- 
band's absence, that was a good deal more than Fred Fos- 
ter cared to be. He took it as quite natural, in their 
straitened circumstances, that he should tiy to pick up a 
few sovereigns in the only way known to him; and he 
plainly intimated that if she chose to occupy most of her 
time in looking after other people’s affairs, he, at least, 
preferred to attend to his own proper business. Once, in- 
deed, he offered to let her accompany him. It was on the 
eve of the Brighton and Lewes race meetings. 

“ What do you say to going down for the week, 'to have 
a look at the old place?” he said. ” You would find it lively 
at this time of the year— the King’s Road in November is 
pretty brisk. We could put up at the Bedford — I like the 
coffee-room ’ ’ 

‘‘ Thank you, Fred, but I think I would rather not go,” 
she answered. 

” Why? I suppose because you don’t want to meet Raby 
or any of those fellows. Well, you wouldn’t. They’ll be 
at the Old Ship, if they are at Brighton at all. Don’t you 
think you would be safe enough at the Bedford? There’s a 
ladies’ room you might shut yourself up in, if you’re so 
terribly afraid.” 

She look no heed of the taunt. 

‘‘It isn’t that. But I’d rather not go,” she said, gently. 

‘‘ Oh, you grudge the time, I suppose? You can’t tear 
yourself aAvay from your beloved slums?” 

‘‘No, it isn’t the time either,” she said, ‘‘it is the ex- 
pense. I should not feel very happy about it ; so please 
don’t ask me.” 

‘‘Oh, well, you can stop at home if you like,” he said; 
and there was an end of that proposal. 

However, matters mended very much at Christmas; for 
thej^ were to spend that holiday with the old people, and 
whatever was best in Foster’s nature and disposition in- 
variably came to the front when his mother’s influence was 
brought to bear on him. A few days before Christmas the 
old lady came to town, to do some shopping and take her 
daughter-in-law back with her; and as soon as she had in- 
stalled herself in an old-fashioned little hotel near Charing 
Cross that is much patronized by Buckinghamshire folk, 
she hurried along to see Sabina. She had arrived earlier 
than was expected ; Fred Foster was out ; she found Sabina 
alone. 

‘‘My dear, my dear,” she said, with some concern, and 
she took the girl’s two hands, and kissed her on both 
cheeks, and drew her to the window, ‘‘ you’re not looking 
at all well! What is the matter? Have you been ill?” 

“Oh, no,” Sabina said — and for the moment her face 


1^4 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


was all lit tJp with gladness at finding this kind friend 
near her again; there seemed comfort in her mere pres- 
ence. 

“ But this will never do— we must see whether the coun- 
try air can bring back the roses to your cheeks,” said this 
gentle mother-in-law, and she kept patting the girl’s hand. 

‘ ‘ And every time you wrote, you wrote from London — 
have you never been away from London since we saw 
you?” 

” No,” she answered. “But you know I am quite used 
to that.” 

“But you shouldn’t be used to it,” Mrs. Foster said, 
sharply. “ I suppose Fred has been flying about the coun- 
try just as he ever did?” 

“He has been away at times,” Sabina answered, eva- 
sively. 

“And how has he been behaving?” the elder lady said, 
Avith some little scrutiny in her eyes. “Pretty much as 
usual, I suppose? Yes; but we thought he Avas going to 
turn over a new leaf w^hen he married. And so glad I am 
that you are coming doAvn to us now; for you Avill have to 
be the peace-maker — indeed you Avill, my dear. ’ ’ 

Sabina looked up inquiringly. 

“That wretched boy has been getting into trouble again 
Avith his father,” the mother said, Avith a rueful good 
nature. “Writing for money, I suppose; and never a 
Avord about Crookfield, or settling down anywhere else. 
Indeed, my dear, I think it’s mostly on your behalf that 
his father is so angry; so you’ll have to be the peace- 
maker — and you’ll find it easy enough Avith that pretty 
face of yours. ’ ’ 

The old lady noAV made Sabina sit doAvn, and took a 
chair opposite to her, and proceeded to open a somewhat 
capacious and country -looking purse. 

“ Noav, my dear, I have brought you a little Christmas 
present ; and I knoAv Avhat is most useful to a young house- 
keeper, being a housekeeper myself.” 

She took out a little packet of bank-notes, all neatly 
folded, and bound together with a tiny elastic band; and 
then she counted them. 

“ Yes, ten; and as each is a ten-pound note, you mustn’t 
leave them lying about, my dear.” 

She put the little packet into the girl’s hand, and closed 
her fingers over it. 

“Dear mother, it is so very good of you,” Sabina said, 
and her eyes were grateful enough. “If you only knew 
hoAv much I shall be able to do with it— just at this time, 
too — I confess I was a little down-hearted about going 
away into the country, and leaving so many small things 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


195 


undone. And I will be very, very careful. I suppose I 
may take ten pounds for myself, if I give the rest to 
Fred.” ► 

” What !” the elder woman cried, instantly. “ You fool- 
ish child, I tell you that that is for your own private purse, 
every farthing of it. To Fred! Well I used to help Mas- 
ter Freddy a little; but I’m done with him now, until he 
settles down and conducts himself like a respectable mar- 
ried man. For your own private purse, my dear, . every 
farthing of it!” 

“Ah, but you don’t know,” Sabina said, with downcast 
ej^es. ” I shall be glad to give it to him. I wish it was in 
a clearer sense my own. I wish it came from my familv. ” 

“Why?” 

The girl hesitated ; then she looked up in a piteous way, 
as if appealing to this kind friend not to misunderstand 
her. 

“Don’t think I am saying anything against him, or 
would mean to do that,” she said, timidly. “But— but 
sometimes I cannot get it out of my head that Fred ap- 
pears to think I married him under false pretenses. He 
wouldn’t say it,” she added instantly. “ But— but some- 
times he seems to think it; and, of course, if he really was 
quite certain that my father would do something more for 
me than he has done— well, the disappointment is only 
natural. Dear Mrs. Foster, I shall be so glad to give him 
this money; but don’t you understand how I could wish it 
to be more clearly my very own to give?” 

“ 1 understand more than you think,” said Mrs. Foster, 
angrily. “ Has Fred been worrying you about money?” 

But Sabina would make no such admission ; she evaded 
that question and a good many others that Mrs. Foster 
put; and indeed the arrival of Fred Foster himself shortly 
brought these suspicious inquiries to a close. 

For the sake of variety they went down to Missenden 
by the familiar old omnibus that still starts — or recently 
started— from the Bell in Holborn — that is to say, they 
leisurely drove away down by Uxbridge, and Chalfont St. 
Giles, and .Amersham; and they had not left the great 
city far behind when the fresh, sweet-smelling country 
air began to be very grateful to Sabina, who had been so 
long pent up in the town. Both the ladies were outside; 
for this was a very mild December, and though there had 
been rain in the night, there was now a clear, watery sun- 
shine flooding the wide landscape, and what wind there 
was touched the cheek softly enough. And the further 
they went away into the open country the more beautiful, 
it seemed to Sabina, everything became; there was a 
strange clearness abroad, and a multitude of colors to de- 


196 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


light the eye. The gray- green of the commons; the deeper 
greens of holly and ivy ; the russet of withered beech and 
withered fern ; the t^irple red of the haws ; the scarlet ber- 
ries of the bryony; the black berries of the elder; the 
white waxen- like berries of the mistletoe high up on some 
gnarled old apple-tree— all these were shining in this 
humid sunlight, that seemed to call up vapors and pleas- 
ant scents from the long swathes of plowed field and 
fallow. Of course, long before they reached Missenden, 
night had fallen over the land; but it was not much of a 
winter’s night; Sabina regretted that the day’s drive had 
come to an end. 

And very speedily it appeared that there had been some 
rather serious quarrel between father and son ; for the old 
gentleman w-ould scarce take any notice of Mr. Fred 
Foster, but devoted his whole atteiition to Sabina, making 
her his constant confidante and companion. During these 
next few days Sabina nestled down into this quiet, domestic 
life with a curious, unwonted sense of comfort and peace. 
For a long time back she had found herself very homeless 
and very lonely; and now these good people were sur- 
rounding her with every possible little kindness, and she 
was abundantly grateful. Even Fred Foster, in the society 
of his mother, showed himself in the best of humors, and 
by dint of sheer audacity succeeded in establishing some 
better relations between the old man and himself. He 
went out shooting most of the time — picking up a stray 
bird or a hare occasionally ; while Sabina talked to the old 
gentleman in the greenhouses, or walked arm-in-arm with 
Mrs. Foster through the dank, faint-smelling garden. 

It was on one of these latter occasions that the old lady 
again broached the subject of the young people coming and 
settling down in the country. Sabina paused for a moment 
in their walk, and regarded her friend with a somewhat 
wistful look. 

“ I almost think it would be better,” she said. “ I used 
to fear it would be selfish — to give up everything Avhen 
there is so much that can be done to lielp people who are 
greatly in need of help. And I suppose it would be selfish. 
But I find now that I cannot do as much as I used to do; 
well, the mere want of money interferes, though money 
isn’t everything in that kind of work. And one feels the 
need of a home— where one can rest at times.” 

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, my dear,” the old lady said, with 
eager kindness. “ I am sure you are right. Of course, you 
want a home. And Crookfield could be made so nice and 
comfortable for you; . just the prettiest place imaginable; 
and far enough away, too, to save you from intrusion— 
you wouldn’t have an ill-natured old mother-in law com- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


19V 


ing prying and poking her nose in at every minute. But 
you may depend on this, my dear child, that anything my 
husband or myself could do to make you perfectly happy, 
well, it would be done pretty quickly, I think.” 

“Ah, you are all too good to me down here,” Sabina 
said, with a bit of a sigh ; she was thinking of her life in 
London. 

But as soon as Mrs. Foster found a convenient opportunity 
she went to her son. 

“Fred,” she said, “do you know that Sabina is quite 
willing to live in the country?” 

“Oh, is she?” he responded, with some indifference. 

“Now don’t you think this would be a great chance for 
you to give up that idle life?” she pleaded. “Even to 
get a proper home for Sabie would be something. She is 
not looking well at all. She wants rest and quiet.” 

“Do you mean at Crookfield?” he asked, with a smile. 

“Yes, Ido.” 

“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about, 
mother. She would be sick and tired of it in a week. Her 
heart would be back in those slums, where she spends the 
whole of her time and every farthing that she can appro- 
priate with decency. As if there was such an abundance 
of money flying about !” 

“ But what is this about money, now?” his mother asked. 
“ She says that you are disappointed. Did you ever look 
forward to living upon her income?” 

“I looked forward to our joining our not immense fort- 
unes,” said he, with much equanimity, “ so as to share the 
domestic expenses. It’s a usual kind of thing, I believe.” 

“ And now you are disappointed with her because her 
father will not give her as much as you expected?” 

He did not answer this; he was busy filling some car- 
tridges. 

“ At all events,” his mother said, warmly, “ you have 
no right to say that she deceived you, or to think it even— 
she is ihcapable of any such thing— you should be ashamed 
to imagine such a thing ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean !” 

“ Well, perhaps it is a mere fancy on her part— I hope it 
is — I hope for your own sake it is —but I know what she 
thinks — she thinks that you have got to imagine that she 
married you under false pretenses.” 

“ Oh, she thinks that, does she?” he said, carelessly, and 
he locked up the cartridge-box and put it aside. “ Well, I 
never said so, anyway. ’ ’ 

And with that he got his cap and went out, whistling 
for the retriever that was lying asleep in the yard, 


198 


SABJNA ZEMBEA, 


CHAPTER XXV. 

ALTERED PLANS. 

On their return to town Sabina gave her husband eighty 
pounds out of the one hundred pounds she had received 
from the old lady ; and this came in handy ; for if there 
was no racing just then, he was busy enough with pigeon- 
shooting and billiards, and also there was a little specula- 
tion going on about the Waterloo Cup. But it must not bo 
imagined that he was in any wise grateful for the gift. He 
knew very well that, had Sabina not been in the case, he 
would have had the whole of that sum ; and he knew that 
the twenty pounds would be frittered away on objects of 
which he wholly and sulkily disapproved. For he had 
come to grumble not a little about her work in the slums, 
and her attendance upon charitable societies. It was a 
mere waste of time and money, he said. A married woman 
ought to devote herself to her own home. On the rare oc- 
casions on which he had returned to their rooms at mid- 
day, he had found her almost invariably absent, and there 
was a difficulty about luncheon, for the landlady was un- 
prenared for such contingencies. To be sure, Sabina had 
offered to be at home every day at one, if he wished it; but 
this again was absurd ; for how could he bind himself by 
any such hard and fast rule? 

As regards the money, were they in a position to indulge 
in indiscriminate charity? Moreover, her rigid economy 
(which he declared to be perfectly ridiculous) was in a kind 
of way a standing reproach to him. It seemed to accuse 
him of extravagance, whereas he was merely living as 
always he had lived. It made him look foolish in the 
eyes of his friends, when they passed Sabina and himself 
in a restaurant, that he should be drinking wine and she 
only water. Why should she not drink wine? She 
would be ready enough to prescribe it for sick people 
down in Hammersmith; why shouldn’t she presoribe it 
for herself, seeing that she was looking none too well? He 
saw no virtue in self-sacrifice ; it was a pure delusion ; the 
best thing for everybody was for each to do the best for 
himself. 

In the meanwhile these representations took no practical 
shape ; for now came the hurdle-racing at Kempton and 
Sandown and Croydon to engage his attention — with the 
Lincoln Spring Meeting looming in the near future; and he 
was absent from town a good deal; and Sabina was left to 
the freedom of her own solitary ways. But when he came 
back he said to her one evening : 

“ Look here. I’ve been thinking things over, and I 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 1^9 

don’t see that we get value for our money out of these 
rooms. 

He did not, at any rate. 

“ They are expensive; and it’s an expensive way of liv- 
ing, as you say— dining at restaurants and all that. When 
we started them, of coiirse, I expected we should have a 
wider margin; but I suppose that is all over now. Well, 
now, didn’t I understand from the mater, when we were 
down in Buckinghamshire, that you were willing to live in 
the country?” 

” It vras a kind of fancy,” she said, absently. 

” But either you did say you were willing, or you didn’t,” 
he retorted, with a touch of impatience. 

‘‘Yes, I said I thought it might be better, ” she answered, 
with a little hesitation. ‘ ‘ They were very kind to me down 
there. I liked the quiet life. If I were only thinking of 
myself ” 

“Well, then, I take it you are willing to live in the 
country,” he said, interrupting her. “And I think you 
are quite right. It will be much healthier, and cheaper, 
too, if it is properly managed. I will look out for a con- 
venient little place, not too far from town ” 

She looked up in some bewilderment. 

“ But don’t you mean Crookfield?” 

“ Crookfield !” he said, with a laugh— “ Crookfield! I 
should think not! Ten miles away from the nearest rail- 
way-station ! No, thank you ; I don’t want to play Robinson 
Crusoe. ’ ’ 

“ But it was about Crookfield your mother was thinking 
when she spoke of our going to live in the country,” 
Sabina said, not seeing how she had been entrapped. 

“ Oh, yes, I know. She said so. But I don’t propose to 
turn farmer; it’s the worst paying .game there is, nowa- 
days; my father will do much better to take whatever 
rent he can get for the place. I want quarters much more 
convenient than that — near to Epsom, perhaps — Banstead 
is handy — or Leatherhead — anyway we must not get be- 
yond the pale of civilization altogether.” 

And so Sabina had pledged herself — without too closely 
asking herself why— to forsake all those pursuits and oc- 
cupations that had been the solace of a somewhat lonely 
life, to leave her friends behind her, and to go away into 
the country, she knew not whither. Of course, when she 
announced this startling intelligence to Janie Wygram, 
she had to adduce reasons. It was her husband’s wish, to 
begin with. They had found their means a little strait- 
ened ; they would be able to live more economically. Then 
her husband had complained of her spending so much of 
her time away from home ; perhaps they would be more 


200 


BABINA ZEMBBA. 


together in the course of a country life. These and sev- 
eral other reasons she placed before Janie; she did not add 
—perhaps she would not have confessed to herself—that 
she was sick and sore at heart, and that she had welcomed 
this change, as she would have welcomed any change, in 
a kind of despair. 

Now this is what Janie Wygram instantly said to her- 
self: 

“ The contemptible brute! begrudges her every farthing 
that she pinches and saves out of her own income; and he 
is carrying her off to the country so that he may have 
ev’ery penny to himself.” 

But this was what Janie Wj^gram (who was a loyal lass, 
and had not forgotten Walter Lindsay’s parting injunc- 
tions) said to Sabina: 

‘ ‘ Ah, well, Sabie, I dare say he is a little bit jealous of 
the time you give to other people. It’s only natural, isn’t 
it? And then he is quite right about the healthier air ; and 
you haven’t been looking your best of late, you know. 
Dear me, I wonder what Kensington will be like without 
you? There was always the chance of meeting you in the 
street somewhere. I never went out of the house without 
thinking, ‘ Well, now, perhaps Sabie is just coming round 
the corner.’ And there’s many and many a home will 
miss you, Sabie. ” 

Sabina was standing at the window, looking but on the 
wintery trees and bushes of Kensington Square, and her 
back was turned to her friend. When Janie went to her, 
and put her arm within her’s, she was greatly surprised 
to find that the girl’s eyes were filled with tears. 

“Sabie, you are not glad about going!” she exclaimed, 
breathlessly. “ It vexes you? You are not happy about 
it?” 

Sabina dried her eyes quickly. . 

“ Oh, it will be all right,” she said. “ I dare say it will 
be all right. When there are so many real troubles in the 
world, it is no use bothering about sentimental ones.” 

“ But you don’t want to go!” 

“ I suppose the whole of life is more or less of an experi- 
ment,” Sabina said, “and you can’t tell how any part of 
it may turn out. I hope this will be for the better.” 

Janie looked at her, wondering whether she was going to 
speak more plainly, and yet almost afraid. But the calm 
and beautiful face was quite passive; and the hazel eyes— 
tliat used to be so clear, and shining with mirth, or filled 
with a soft and benignant kindness — were now almost apa- 
thetic, not to say hopeless. 

“You will have to be very good to my poor people, 
Janie, ’ ’ she said, with an effort at cheerfulness. You know 


SABINA ZEMBEA. 


201 


their ways. And you will be more patient with them than 
I was,” 

“Me?” said Janie. “ And you think I could ever take 
your place? It’s little you know what you have been to 
them, Sabie., It isn’t money, mind; as far as that goes, 
there would be no great difficulty. For do you know 
what Philip has done? — he is such a noble fellow ! You re- 
member, I told you that Walter Lindsay had written over 
to say that it would be a great favor to him if we would 
occupy his house after we got married. And you know, 
Sabie, Philip is pretty well off; kis people are very well off 
indeed ; and he himself has been very lucky in getting 
commissions —he is very popular in Liverpool and Birken- 
head, where they’ve plenty of money to spend on pictures 
— so that when I told him of Mr. Lindsay's offer, he laughed 
at first, and didn’t like the notion of having a house rent- 
free. But it happens that the studio is the very thing he 
wants; and he is so very busy that he can’t bother about 
building one for himself at present; so he came to me the 
day before yesterday, and said that as soon as we were 
married we would settle down there, only that he would 
prefer paying rent. And where was the rent to go to? 
Walter Lindsay would not take it. Well, it was bo be handed 
over to you and me, to help deserving people. Wasn’t 
that kind? So, you see, it isn’t the money. But when 
you talk about my taking your place, it’s little you know. 
It wasn’t money so much as courage you brought them. 
They did whatever you asked them to do. Will you come 
and bid them good-bye before you go, Sabie?” 

The girl’s lips quivered for an instant. 

“No,” she answered. “ What would be the use? That 
would be mere sentiment. What is the use of sentiment?’^ 

“It would be kindness, Sabie. And you never refused 
them that.” 

There was no answer. Sabina had got into the habit of 
late of leaving conversations unended; her mind seemed 
much preoccupied. 

On the morning after Fred Foster’s return from the Lin- 
coln and Liverpool meetings, he was standing at the win- 
dow of their sitting-room, looking down into the Strand. 
It was rather a cheerful sort of morning for March, and 
there was a spring like feeling in tHh air. After a while he 
turned to Sabina. 

“I have to run down to Epsdm— to Witstead, rather,” 
said he, “ to see some friends of mine there about a little 
bit of business. Would j^ou care to go for the day? I dare 
say they would give us some lunch; and we could come 
back in the afternoon.” 

Now this was a most unexpected proposal; for never 


203 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


once, since the unlucky episode of the music-hall and Cap- 
tain Raby, had he offered to introduce her to any of his 
associates, just as never once had he brought either friend 
or acquaintance home to these lodgings. But Sabina as- 
sented forthwith, and cheerfully; and she went away to 
make herself as neat and smart as possible; and was re- 
solved to show herself grateful for his consideration, and 
as amiable as might be. In the hansom going down to 
Victoria Station he said, rather apologetically: 

“ You know theyH'e not very distinguished people, those 
Deanes we are going to see. But they’re good enough kind 
of folk; and the world’s made up of all sorts; we’ve got to 
take them as tliey are.” 

The apology was unnecessary ; Sabina was resolved, not 
upon taking them as they were, but upon making the best 
of them, whoever they might be. And, indeed, the little 
trip promised to be very pleasant. Once away from Lon- 
don, the clear country light was a cheerful thing to look 
at; and the air that blew in at the carriage window was 
very mild and sweet; and she could not but think that 
along the hedge-rows there — in the sheltered places, or on 
the warm, sunny banks, or in the clearances of the woods 
—the firstlings of the year must be appearing now; the red 
dead-nettle, the ground -ivy, here and there a patch of pale 
primroses, a sweet violet half hidden among the withered 
grass. She would like to have brought a dozen or so of 
the children she knew, and turned them loose into these 
wooded lanes. Fred Foster was reading a newspaper, and 
she had leisure to picture them straying through the dryer 
glades or chasing each other over the wide commons. She 
could almost hear them laughing. It was a spring day, fit 
,for children, and children's delights. 

They were received at Witstead station by Mr. Deane 
himself, who seemed to have dressed liimself in a gay 
fashion for this occasion. He was distinctly a horsey- 
looking man of about five-and-thirty, with a thin, dried, 
good-humored face, small, clear eyes, and neatly cut 
whiskers. Toward Sabina he was particularly civil, not to 
say obsequious: told her that he had that very morning 
been reading a speech of her father’s, and — though they 
differed in politics — he considered it a remarkably able 
speech-- remarkably able. And might he have the pleas- 
ure of introducing his wife, who was waiting outside the 
station with the pony-chaise? Mrs. Deane turned out to 
be a buxom and rather pretty little person of about eight- 
and-twenty, with cheeks like the rose, merry blue ej-es, 
and a manner that was chirrupy and cheerful to the verge 
of audacity. And as the gentlemen preferred to walk, 
Mrs. Deane would have Sabina take a seat beside her in 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


203 


the pony- chaise ; and then they drove away together— 
toward the little straggling village of Witstead, that is 
dotted in a staccato fashion along a bit of the Guildford 
road. 

The distance from the station to the village is barely 
over three-quarters of a mile; but Fred Foster and his 
companion would appear to have walked rather slowly— 
no doubt talking over their business affairs; for before 
they arrived at Wayside Cottage, the mistress of that 
small establishment had had time to introduce Sabina to 
her family, as she called her miscellaneous collection of 
pets. Other family had she none ; but these afforded her 
sufficient interest and occupation, wliat with her cock- 
atoos, and white mice, and love-birds, and marmosets, and 
squirrels, and kittens, and canaries. Indeed, by the time 
that the voluble and roseate little woman had expatiated on 
the merits and virtues and tricks and failings of this host 
of favorites, and by the time that Fred Foster and his 
companion had finished their talk in the little bit of front 
garden overlooking the front road, Mrs. Deane begged to 
be excused, for that now she had to be off to get luncheon 
hurried up. 

Well, Sabina was not much interested in these good 
people, but she was in no wise offended by them, and dur- 
ing this little banquet she tried to be as amiable and re- 
sponsive to all their kindness as she well could be. Of 
course, Mrs. Deane monopolized most of her attention ; for 
Fred Foster and his friend were discussing the recent 
University Boat-race, and also certain wrestling contests 
then going on at Lillie Bridge. And soon it appeared that 
this gay and rubicund little lady had a most astonishing 
acquaintance with what was to the fore in the way of 
amusements in London. She knew all the pieces at the 
theaters; she had heard all the new music;, from Muswell 
Hill and its racing to the Crystal Palace and its fireworks, 
she and her husband seemed to have been everywhere and 
to have seen everything. 

“ I should have thought,” Sabina said, in some surprise, 
” that you would have found it difficult to get much to the 
theater— living in a remote place like this ” 

“ Bless you,” said the other, cheerfully, “ that is the ad- 
vantage of living anywhere within a reasonable driving 
distance of Epsom; the late trains make it so easy. Did 
you think we were buried alive down here? Oh, I think 
we know a little of what’s going on in town.” 

” So it would seem,” Sabina said, smiling. 

On the other hand, whenever the conversation was gen- 
eral, Mr. Deane’s manner toward Sabina was most defer- 
ontial; and he warmly expre^^ed concurrence with what* 


204 


SABINA ZEMBBA, 


ever she said, and was pleased to grin when there happened 
to be something cheerful. Nor, when luncheon was over, 
could he be induced to light a cigar in that room, though 
everybody else was willing that he should do so ; he refused 
flatly, and said that he and Foster Avould smoke on their 
way over to the stables of a great house near by, which 
they had promised to visit. Then again, instead of at once 
following Fred Foster out to the front gate, he found a 
chance of calling his wife aside, and said, quickly: 

“Mind this, Susie, if you’re singing any songs now, be a 
little careful. Don’t have any ot the ‘ a-little-later-in the- 
evening’ kind, there’s a good girl.” 

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mrs. Deane, with a cheerful 
little giggle, “ I’m not going to sing any songs. I’m going 
to take her for a drive to Box^ill. I think she’s an 
awfully nice girl. Whatever made her marry Fred Fos- 
ter?” 

“Women do strange things,” her husband said. “I 
suppose it was the accident that brought it about.” 

“ Then there’s another thing, Jim,” she said. “ I wish 
you wouldn’t allow Fred Foster to jump on you. What 
right has he to patronize you? Ain’t you as good as he is? 
—well, I should think so! Just you cheek him a bit — it’ll 
do him all the good in the world. You keep him in his 
place, Jim. His wife’s worth a dozen of him— set him up 1” 

When the two husbands were gone, their wives got into 
the pony-chaise, Mrs. Deane taking the reins; and pres- 
ently they were driving away along the Surrey highway, 
on a spring day that was pleasant enough, with its purple 
clouds, and silver light, and warm, humid air. And 
somehow Sabina preferred Mrs. Deane in the pony-chaise 
to Mrs. Deane at table; for in the pony-chaise she looked 
so trim and neat and jolly ; whereas at table she had a 
trick of trying to eat and speak at once — a practice which 
saves time, to be sure, but is not otherwise to be admired. 
They drove aw;iy down by Mickleham and Juniper Hill 
and Burf ord Bridge ; then they struck off the mam high- 
way to make the ascent of Box Hill ; and here Mrs. Deane 
surrendered the reins to Sabina, to let the patient and stout 
little cob take the long zigzags at his ease, while she took a 
bee-line up the hill with a lightness of foot that showed she 
was used to the neighborhood. She got in again at the 
top; and then they made away for Headley Heath and 
Walton Downs — making no haste of the drive, indeed, for 
tliey had plenty of time, and the day was mild for Marcli. 

The blitlie little Mrs. Deane seemed rather curious to 
learn in what measure Sabina was acquainted with, or in- 
terested in, her husband’s pursuits; though here Sabina 
was reticent enough; and also she wanted to know how a 


Sabina zemBra. 205 

mere bicycle accident should have led to acquaintanceship, 
and then friendship, and then marriage. 

“ I wonder whether he will be quite up to his old form 
next week,” she said. 

“ But how?” Sabina asked. 

” In the steeple-chase.” 

‘‘What steeple chase?” 

‘‘Why, don’t you know? The Spring Steeple-chase at 
Manchester. I fancy that this is the first one he has rid- 
den since that accident ; that’s a long time for a man to be 
kept aAvay from what used to be his favorite hobby. The 
loss of money, too ; a hundred to nothing is a nice little bet 
when one is hard up.” 

‘‘Do you go much to races?” Sabina ventured to in- 
quire. 

“I? Not I! The ordinary race-meetings are no use for 
women at all; the men are after business — not after 
lunches, and swell gowns, and gloves. But when your 
own set have pulled off a good thing, and the men are 
back in town, then you may have a very nice time; 
they’re free-handed then; easy come, easy go; there are a 
good many little presents about. But the bookie wins in 
the end— yes, and all along the way, too; it’s no good the 
clever ones thinking they can stand against the market 
odds ; though they may have a stroke of luck now and 
again. Your husband was awful lucky last year.” 

‘‘ Was he?” Sabina said; and then, as that sounded as if 
she were strangely ignorant of her husband’s affairs, she 
instantly added, ‘‘ Yes, J believe he was. They say he is a 
very good judge of horses — and— and the one he has a 
share in did very well last year, I believe. But I don’t un- 
derstand much about it.” 

‘‘ The less you know the better,” said Mrs. Deane, curtly. 
“ I’ve heard a good deal too much.” 

In course of time thej^ got back to Wayside Cottage, 
and found that the tw'o husbands had returned; and, as 
there was a train due in about half an hour, they did not 
take the pony out; thej" merely stopped for a cup of tea, 
and then Mrs. Deane drove Sabina to the station. Fred 
Foster arrived there a few minutes afterward; and pres- 
ently they were on their way back to town. 

” A nice little cottage, that?” he said, inquiringly. 

‘‘ Oh yes,” she answered. 

‘‘I should think the garden would look pretty in the 
summer.” 

“Yes; and they have a good deal of fruit, Mrs. Deane 
says.” 

‘‘What kind of a trap was that— comfortable?” 

“Very.” 


l^ABINA ZEMBBA. 


m 

“ And the cob? it seemed to me a niceish-looking beast. ” 

“It is very quiet,” Sabina answered. “ And very will- 
ing at the hill- work.” 

“ Ah,” said he, “ I’m glad you approve of the place, for 
I’ve just taken it over from my worthy friend Deane.” 

“ Do you mean we are to live there?” Sabina said, some- 
what aghast. 

“ If you are to live anywhere at all in the country. I 
don’t see Avhere you could get a prettier place, or more 
convenient,” he said, cheerfully. “And we can get it at 
once. They’re removing to Newmarket. Mrs. Deane 
doesn’t know as yet. though ; guess she’ll tear her hair — 
and his too — when she’s told ; for she is rather fond of a 
little fling in town. And I’ve taken over the cob and 
ponj/ -chaise, too, though it’s needless to say I haven’t paid 
for them yet; if the beast is quiet, you’ll have no trouble 
about driving him ; it will be quite an occupation for you. 

And thus came to an end Sabina’s mission work in Lon- 
don; she was no longer an “angel in the house,” 07 \ 
rather, in many, many houses ; she was now merely Mrs. 
Foster, of Wayside Cottage, Witstead. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A MESSAGE. 

No sooner was Sabina installed in her new home than 
she began to try to make it as neat and pretty and attract- 
ive as might be ; and she had plenty of leisure to do so, for, 
as it happened, Fred Foster had to be down at Northamp- 
ton just at this time. And no doubt through all these little 
preparations there ran the wistful hope that on his return 
he might perhaps be a little .more kind and considerate 
toward her than he had been. Nay, she began to take her- 
self to task, and to seek reasons for his apparent discontent 
with her. Perhaps her character was somewhat too severe? 
Perhaps it was true that she had impossible standards of 
duty and conduct, that only served to disconcert people? 

Perhaps she ought to aim at being a little more like Mrs. 
Deane, whose robustly merry spirits seemed to please her 
husband very well? Perhaps she was too straitlaced— 
too exacting— not tolerant enough of other people’s ways 
and opinions and pursuits? For Sabina could hardly be- 
lieve that this alteration in his manner toward her was 
due merely to disappointment over money matters. Why, 
before marriage, what she had chiefly admired in him was 
his courageous cheerfulness in making the best of any 
circumstances. It is true that his mother said on one oc- 
casion: 

“Well, Sabina, I am afraid Fred is a spoiled child, and I 


^ABTNA ZEMBRA. 207 

am afraid I am partly responsible for it ; but he is very 
good-humored and nice so long as he has his own way.” 

But surely he was having his own way now? She had 
given up all the interests of her life to please him; she was 
ready to obey his slightest wish ; she would try to mold 
her character, her opinions, her conduct, in any direction 
that would be agreeable to him. And perhaps, when he re- 
turned, he would be a little more kind to her — and remain 
a little more with her? And she would not forget to be 
grateful to him for his not insisting on her personally going 
to seek money from her father. 

But when Fred Foster’s mother heard of their removal 
to this furnished house in Surrey, she was exceedingly 
angry, and wrote a long and indignant letter to Sabina 
about her son’s perversity, as she chose to consider it. On 
Foster’s return from Northampton he found his protest 
awaiting him, for he had enjoined Sabina to preserve for 
him all letters coming from his mother; and when he had 
read it, he pitched it back impatiently on to the chimney- 
piece. 

” Yes,” he said, turning to Sabina, “I suppose you wrote 
complaining that it was a lonely place — that there wasn’t 
enough society for you.” 

” Oh, no, Fred, I did not,” she said, rather timidly. ‘‘ I 
— I— said I was afraid you would find it dull — it was about 
you that I wrote ” 

” Oh, you may make your mind easy about me,” said he, 
carelessly. ” You needn’t imagine that I am going to sit 
down and bite my nails— or plant kidney -beans. I can’t af- 
ford it. Our circumstances aren’t so flourishing as all that ; 
I must be about just as much as ever; you needn’t bother 
about me. ’ ’ 

Then he began to make inquiries about the arrangements 
she had made with the Epsom tradesmen; and it was clear 
that he meant this household to be conducted with a view 
to economy. 

“ Of course, ” said he, “the simplest way to pay Jim 
Deane for the cob and the pony-chaise would be to sell 
them both; and that would save old Noel’s wages, besides 
the keep of the cob-^ — ” 

“ But how should we get the things out from Epsom?” 
she asked. 

“ You could send the girl in by train at a pinch. Or I 
dare say most of the Epsom tradesmen ‘have carts. But I 
sha’n’t decide on that yet; we’ll see what Newmarket does 
for me. Oh, by the way, if you have any questions to ask 
of Mrs. Deane, just jot them down on a piece of paper. I 
sluill see her to-morrow night most likely.” 


208 


SABINA I^EMBRA. 


“Are you going away again, then?” Sabina asked, with- 
out raising her eyes. 

“ Yes; I’m going down to Newmarket to-morrow.” 

So Sabina was left once more alone ; and somehow she 
was more hopeless now, as she tried this or that bit of 
additional decoration within-doors,'or sought employment 
outside in helping the little old man who worked in the 
garden when he was done with the stable. At first she 
had got this ancient to drive her in the pony-chaise — in his 
faded livery; but he was not very communicative; and she 
preferred being alone ; and so she took to driving by her- 
self— going considerable distances sometimes — and letting 
the cob walk for the most part. In this way she became 
very familiar with the not over-peopled neighborhood sur- 
rounding her, with the Commons of Stoke and Leatherhead 
and Esher, with Fitcham Downs and Mickleham Dowms, 
with Headley Heath and Walton Heath, and all the 
scattered little hamlets and nooks and by-ways to which 
she could gain access. It was a solitary life for a young 
woman to lead. Her ostensible object was the gathering 
of wild fiowers for the adornment of the cottage parlor. 
The cob would stand patiently enough in the lanes, or on 
the open heath, while she explored the hedge-rows or the 
broken sand-pits. But sometimes she forgot this pursuit — 
oftenest when she had got up to some height from which 
she could look northward across the wide, undulating, 
wooded country : and then she would remain there motion- 
less, silent, absent-minded, until she felt helpless tears 
swimming into her eyes. For she was looking across that 
wide landscape to London town, where still she had one or 
two friends. 

One day her solitude was broken in upon, for Mrs. Wyg- 
ram, and Janie, and Janie’s artist-sweetheart, all came 
down to see her; and as this was the first time that Sabina 
bad acted as hostess in her own home, she was very proud 
and pleased, and the excitement of seeing them brought 
quite a flush of animation to the pale and sad face. As for 
Janie (after one quick, nervous, anxious look of inquiry di- 
rected to Sabina’s eyes), she declared that the little cottage 
was most charmingly pretty, the neighborhood was delight- 
fully picturesque, the air so sweet after London, the blos- 
som on the fruit-trees so beautiful. She would go into the 
garden, and was interested in the smallest details; she 
went into the stable and patted the cob ; she thought the 
little maid-servant such a pretty-looking country lass. But 
when they had got indoors again, and when Sabina had 
gone away for a couple of minutes to superintend lunch, 
Janie said, sharply: 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


209 


“Philip, why do you stare at her so? I wish you 
wouldn’t stare at her so!” 

“ I think she is more beautiful than ever,” he said, ab- 
sently. “ But it is a rarer kind of beauty— something finer 
— Janie, I don’t know why, but to me she hasn’t the look 
of a happy wonqan.” 

“Oh, don’t say that, Phil!” Janie exclaimed. “Don’t 
say she isn’t happy !” And then she fought with her own 
fears. “ Why, of course she is happy! What did you ex- 
pect? You’ve seen Sabie before. She’s not the giggling 
bar-maid kind of person. Why shouldn’t Sabie be re- 
served —and— and —and refined— and— and quiet in man- 
ner? Did you expect her to giggle?” 

“Janie!” the mother said, and the warning was only 
given in time, for just then Sabina made her appearance. 

But surely this gentle hostess was not unhappy, as she 
sat there at the head of the table, smiling and talking to 
her friends, and rather bewildering the young artist with 
the graciousness of her look and address. He was accus- 
tomed to seek his inspiration from many sources, but he 
could not quite get at the secret here. Was it her eyes— 
that were so frank and generous and kind? Or was it the 
proud set of the. head and neck— as she seemed to incline a 
little in order to listen to her next neighbor? Her shoul- 
ders and the lines of her throat were magnificent, he could 
see easily enough ; but that was merely physical and obvi- 
ous ; that had nothing to do with the subtle charm and 
sweetness of her presence. Wherein lay the mystery, 
then? Was it her disposition? But a plain woman 
might have a beautiful disposition without possessing this 
nameless attraction. Or was it association? There was 
something in the Madonna'-like forehead and in the calm 
of the eyes that seemed to suggest the ideals of the early 
Italian artists — the serene loveliness — the sadness, even, 
with which they had endowed their imaginings of the 
blessed among women. JBe thought he would like to have 
a look through the National Gallery. Janie would go with 
him — it would be a pleasant task for her to seek out some- 
thing resembling Sabina’s expression in those visions and 
dreams of the painters of an earlier world. 

After luncheon was over, Sabina took Mrs. Wygram 
away for a drive in the pony -chaise, considerately leaving 
the two yortng folks to go for a walk by themselves. And 
they had plenty to talk over— at least he had ; for he was 
telling her of the various Italian cities he proposed they 
should visit on their approaching wedding-trip; and he was 
debating whether it was better to arrive at Venice at night 
or in the morning. Which was likely to be the more strik- 
ing to her who had never been there at all— the hushed, 


510 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


mysterious blackness of the canals, and the gliding by of 
the hearse-like and half-invisible gondolas, or the splendor 
of the dawn widening over the great lagoon and making a 
wonder of the islands, and the tall campanili, and the 
domes, and the palaces? He did not address his conversa- 
tion to her direct ; he talked as if he was looking at some 
one away along the road : perhaps that was the reason he 
did not perceive that Janie was paying him but scant at- 
tention. At last he said to her : 

“Why are you silent? What are you thinking of?” 

“I was thinking of one night at Walter Lindsay’s,” 
Janie answered, with a sigh. “ Ah, if you had seen Sabie 
that night ! I never saw her so — so radiant. But I sup- 
pose the world changes to every one.” 

“Oh, as to that,” said he, “ I don’t know that she has 
changed so much for the worse. Of course, I don’t want 
to say anything against her, or else you’d be up in arms in 
a moment ; but the Miss Zembra that I used to see some- 
times — well, everybody could recognize her beauty — that 
was apparent enough — but I confess that she was just a 
little too straightforward in her. manner for me. There 
was a kind of want of sensitiveness somehow that is 
difRcult to explain — she was just a trifle too direct and 
frank ’ ’ 

“ She was a healthy and high-spirited young woman,” 
Janie said, warmly, “and very busy, with little time to 
study small details or think of what she was saying; but 
she was, always and always, just graciousness and good- 
ness itself!” 

“ Oh, yes,” he said. “ Yes, I suppose that was so. But I 
can’t help thinking there is a finer touch about her now ’ ’ 

“I suppose you think it is fine to be unhappy!” said 
Janie, rather bitterly. 

But she instantly drew back from that proposition — or, 
rather, from the suspicion implied in it. 

“Oh, no! I hope she is not unhapp.y,” she said. “Her 
husband seems to be away a great deal, certainly ; and she 
may be feeling lonely there; but, you know, he is mad 
about horse-racing and such things; and as soon as he has 
run through the little money that he has, then he will be 
compelled to stop, and begin and live a more domestic life. 
In the meantime,” Janie added, plaintively, “if he doesn’t 
want her, I wish he would give her to us. Ah, wouldn’t 
you like to see Sabie again in Kensington Square?” 

Sabina seemed to be loath to part with her visitors that 
afternoon. 

“You will come up for the wedding?” Janie said, shyly 
as they stood together in the railway-station. 


SABINA ZE3IBRA, 


311 


‘‘Oh, yes; and for the Private View at the Grosvenor?” 
said the young artist, who seemed to consider these two 
events as of about equal importance to him. 

“ Sabie, do you remember the Private View at the Acad- 
emy last year?” 

There was no answer to the question, for the train came 
in just then; and presently these good people were on their 
way to London, and Sabina was slowly driving back to her 
solitary home. 

Her next visitors were of another complexion. Fred 
Foster came back, of course, for the Epsom Spring Meet- 
ing; and as he was leaving on the first morning, he said 
to her. 

‘‘Most likely some of these fellows will be coming here 
to-night for a smoke and a drink; but that needn’t bother 
you; you needn’t put in an appearance unless you like. It 
was their own proposal; and I’m under obligations to 
Johnny Eussell— I did not like to refuse ” 

“But,” she said, quickly, “couldn’t I get some dinner 
for them? I think I could manage.” 

“Oh, no,” he said, impatiently. “We shall dine at 
Epsom. And you needn’t be afraid— Raby won’t be one of 
them.” 

“Shouldn’t I have some supper for them, Fred?” she 
asked. 

“No, no; it’s drink they want — see that there’s plenty 
of soda-water.” 

Sabina said nothing more ; but all the same she busied 
herself during the day in preparing for them a neat little 
supper, so that they might have it if they wished it; and 
long before they arrived it was all ready for them— a couple 
of cold fowls and some ham and salad, with bottled stout, 
and whisky and soda-water in the cupboard; there was 
no wine in the house. And she had a fire burning brightly ; 
and there were clusters of wild fiowers adorning the white 
table-cover; altogether this little apartment looked very 
neat and comfortable. 

It was about nine o’clock when they arrived ; she heard 
the noisy crew drive up to the gate. And then amid the 
tumult of their getting down, she could make out her hus- 
band’s voice — and sulky enough it sounded. 

“ Hold your row, can’t you? Do you want to make it 
out you’re all drunk?” 

“ "Keep your hair on, old man!” another said. 

“You always were a bad loser, Freddie,” said a third; 
“ but I must say your luck to-day was awful, all the way 
through.” 

And then, as they got to the door, one said; 

“ What is it to be? Crowns and pounds?” 


212 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


But when they came inside, a hush fell over them, and 
they left their coats and hats in the passage quietly enough, 
and then, during their brief and rough-and-ready intro- 
duction to Sabina, their manner was most demure. J ohnny 
Russell was the only one of them she knew ; and he was 
quite deferential. 

“Come along, now, into the other room,” Foster said; 
“ if I’m dead broke, I mean to have a drink anyway.” 

“Won’t you smoke here?” Sabina suggested. “Later 
on you may want a little supper. ” 

“Oh, no, we don’t want any supper,” he said. “Come 
along, you fellows.” 

Being thus imperatively bidden, they followed him into 
the passage, the next moment the open door showed them 
the supper already laid on the table. 

“Here, what’s the use of this?” he said, turning to 
Sabina. “ I told you we shouldn’t want any supper. Send 
the girl and have the table cleared.” 

“Oh, I say, Foster,” Jonny Russell at once protested, 
“ that is rather cool. If Mrs. Foster has been so kind as 
to mean this for us— well, I think you might give us the 
chance — what do you say?” 

He turned to the others. 

“Yes, yes, certainly,” was the unanimous answer; but 
whether that was prompted by any wish for supper or as 
a compliment to their hostess may be a matter of doubt. 

“Oh, very well — very well,” Foster said, and he went 
into the room. 

Sabina remained for a second uncertain; whereupon 
Johnny Russell facetiously remarked: 

“ I think we shall be surer of our welcome when Mrs. 
Foster takes her place at the table.” 

Sabina needed no further invitation; and when she sat 
down they were very kind and attentive to her; though 
she had to remind them that it was she who ought to wait 
upon them. And if, as is highly probable, they wanted no 
supper at all, still, out of courtesy, they pretended to be 
valiant trencher-men, and Sabina was highly pleased. 
Fred Foster was the only one who did not join in; perhaps 
it was his losses during the day that made him moody; at 
all events, he remained standing by the fire ; and he had 
lit a cigar. 

Supper over, and things cleared away by the little maid 
servant, Sabina withdrew ; and she knew, by tlie hilarity 
that speedily followed, that she had done right in leaving 
them free. This was not whist they were playing, she 
guessed ; probably it was some round game, in which the 
ill-luck of the unfortunate was greeted with derision; any- 
how, the noise did not disturb her; she read contentedly in 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


m 

the small drawing-room until (following an old habit about 
which Janie used to tease her) she quietly fell asleep. It 
was near midnight when she awoke; they were still play- 
ing, but less noisily ; so leaving them to themselves, she 
slipped up-stairs and went to bed. 

But whatever game that was they had been playing, 
Fred Foster had burned his fingers at it, as she discovered 
next morning. 

“ Those brutes didn’t go till three,” he said. “I hope 
their walk back to Epsom did them good. I know they 
managed to clean me out before they left.” 

And then he said : 

“Look here, Sabie, I’ve been pretty hard hit lately, in 
several ways. I think I must sell the cob and the pony- 
chaise.” 

“ To pay Mr. Deane?” she asked. 

“Oh no. He’s all right. He has got a bill for that. 
But I must get a bit of money somehow. And this would 
save old Noel’s wages, and the keep of the cob besides.” 

“ Very well,” she said, without any word of remonstrance 
or regret. 

But this sale of the cob and the pony- chaise— they were 
taken away a couple of days thereafter— left her life at the 
cottage even more monotonous and empty than it had 
been before. She worked a little in the garden ; she read 
sometimes; she wrote to Janie; or to Mrs. Foster in Buck- 
inghamshire, evading the old lady’s pertinacious inquiries 
about the whereabouts and conduct of her son. But it was 
a lonely life ; the hours went by slowly ; there were long 
spaces for reverie and recollections and forecasts which 
were not always of the happiest kind. But no word of 
complaint escaped her; whatever of despair was in her 
heart she kept concealed there ; she sought for no sympathy. 
Sometimes, in a half- hysterical kind of way, she would con- 
vince herself that her father would relent, and that a 
larger income would remove her husband’s discontent and 
win him back to her; and she would go down-stairs in the 
morning with some wild hope of finding a letter there 
with the joyful news. No such letter came. Sir Anthony’s 
communications were punctual; beyond that, nothing. 
And so the slow days went by, each one* laying a heavier 
hand upon her heart. 

She did not go to the Private View of the Grosvenor, nor 
yet to Janie Wygram’s wedding; but thereafter she got 
many and many a letter from Janie, describing their wan- 
derings in Italy, and her joy over these new experiences. 
The young married couple were not away very long, 
though they managed to visit a good many places in tlie 
timej and Sabina began to count the days until their re- 


214 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

turn; for somehow she wished to know that Janie was in 
London. 

It was the second morning after they got back that Janie 
received the following note : 

“Dear Friend, — Do you remember one night at Mrs. 
Mellord’s a Scotch girl singing a song that b^egan some- 
thing like this : 

“ ‘ O can ye sew cushions, 

And can ye sew sheets, 

And can ye sing ballaloo 
When the bairn greets?’ 

Do you think you could get me a copy of it? You will try, 
for Sable’s sake?” 

Just as fast as ever she could walk from Notting Hill to 
Kensington Square Janie carried this note, and breathless 
and joyful she was when she put it into her mother’s 
hand. 

“See, mother,” she cried. “Don’t you understand? it is 
a message ! And, oh, I am so glad ! Poor Sabie I she will 
not be so lonely now.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN NEW YORK. 

Walter Lindsay never even began the series of draw- 
ings of the river Shannon, the chief aim of which was that 
they should form a little exhibition by themselves, and so 
enable him to invite Sabina to the Private View. But 
after he had been a little while in America, the idea re- 
curred to him of getting together a collection of consecu- 
tive studies of one particular neighborhood; and finally he 
betook himself to the Adirondacks, remaining there all the 
wfinter and most of the spring, suffering a good deal of 
hardship at times, but working diligently nevertheless. 
When he returned to New York he brought with him a 
sufiScient number of sketches and pictures to make a very 
creditable show in a room that he hired for the purpose ; 
and if there was no formal Private View, many visitors 
dropped in in a casual kind of way, and the newspapers 
were kind enough to approve. The end of it was that a 
railway king bought the entire collection — to be set into a 
series of panels in his smoking-room ; thus leaving Lindsay 
free to renew his solitary wanderings. 

But on the afternoon that saw this transaction com- 
pleted he thought he would treat himself to a bit of a frolic 
later on ; and so, being pi*esident of a small society going 
by the name of the Monks of St. Giles (he had borrowed 
tlie title of a club to which he had been introduced in 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


215 


Edinburgh), he issued a summons to the members to meet 
that night at twelve ; and then he went to order a supper 
for them at the hotel where they were wont to assemble. 
From thence he strolled along to a certain large theater, 
wliere they were just then playing *‘Eomeo and Juliet,” 
passed in by the stage entrance, made his way through 
many intricate passages, and finally gained admission to a 
room in which Romeo and Tybalt — in perfect amity — were 
dressing for their respective parts. 

“ The Monks meet to-night; I thought I would make sure 
of you,” he said to Romeo. 

“ All right,” the hapless lover answered (for a wonder he 
was a perfectly ideal Romeo — young, slim, well-featured, 
well-mannered). 

And then he turned to Tybalt — who, by the way, was as 
handsome as any Montague of them all. 

” I say. Jack, you know we are not supposed to take any 
one with us; but I’ll make it all right with the boys. Will 
you go as my guest? I’ll lend you a cloak and hood.” 

‘‘I should like it immensely,” was the immediate an- 
swer. 

“One good turn deserves another,” Romeo said with a 
laugh. “Jack, why don’t you go and get a domino and 
mask, and we’ll get Lindsay on in the ballroom scene?” 

“What! on the stage?” cried the victim of this pro- 
posal. 

“Why, of course! It will be quite a new experience 
for you. You’re not afraid, are you? Even if you should 
be, that will be another experience. Stage- fright is a deli- 
cious thing — wTien it is over, and you begin to breathe 
again. Besides, no one will see you if you keep your mask 
up.” 

“ But what am I to do?” 

“Oh, anything you like. You can stand and talk to 
Lady Capulet, or you may fan the nurse, or walk about 
among the crowd. But you’d better not wander down the 
stage much ; you might get in the way — and those Capu- 
lets are pretty quick with their weapons.” 

“You may trust me not to wander one inch from the 
place I’m put in,” observed Walter Lindsay, with marked 
decision. 

“ You’ll come off with the others, of course,” his friend 
continued, carelessly (indeed, he was more intent on pen-^ 
ciling his eyebrows). “ And if you care to stay and see the 
rest of the play you can sit in the first entrance; then we 
could all go down together to the Monks.” 

Well, it was not only a new experience, it was an abso- 
lutely bewildering one. For no sooner had he donned the 
long blue domino, with its belt and dagger, and taken the 


316 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


scarlet mask in his hand, then he was led on the stage and 
placed by the side of Lady Capulet’s chair of state ; and 
then it seemed to him as if he were lost in ungovernable 
chaos. How was this turbulent, amorphous crowd, with 
its picturesque costumes and visors and weapons, ever to 
fall into the regulated harmony of a ballroom? The air 
was thick with warnings, calls, and cries; his efforts to 
converse with the Lady Capulet were af the most inconse- 
quent kind. But presently there was a sound slow and 
melodious; a hush fell over the varied throng; and as the 
rising of the curtain revealed to him a vast space beyond 
this ballroom in which he stood— a space dusky and dim 
and huge, and filled with orange- hued masses of what were 
apparently human beings — he found that these figures 
near him were gliding through the gentle movements of a 
minuet, while a chorus of voices somewhere kept time with 
the strains of the music. Curiously enough, he was not 
concerned about the audience in the least. To him they 
were non-existent. They were eyeless, as it were. Why 
should he heed those distant and dusky rows of inanimate 
objects that he could scarce make out? It was here, in 
this actual and living throng, that all his interests were; 
and it was strange to be one of them — to be in the midst of 
them— not the remote spectator of a theatrical display — 
but standing among the guests in the glare and gorgeous- 
iiess of a ballroom of a house in Verona. 

The whole thing became marvelously and unaccount- 
ably real. There was the Lady Juliet. Well, he had the 
honor of a slight acquaintance with the young lady who 
was then playing the part, having met her in one or two 
social circles in New York; but now he forgot all about 
that; surely this was the real Juliet in her father’s home, 
observed of all, and charming all with her youthful and 
radiant beauty, her dignity, her gentle courtesy. A few 
minutes before he had been up in his friend’s dressing- 
room, chatting to him, watching the buckling on of his 
rapier, and thinking mostly about the Monks of St. Giles; 
but he forgot all about that, too ; surely this was the real 
Eomeo-;-the love-lorn, ill-fated youth— here in this ball- 
room-in Verona — whose vibrant voice now thrilled 
through the half -silenced music: 

^ “ Oh, she doth teach ^the torches to burn bright! 

Her beauty hangs upon the cheeks of night 

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; 

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!” 

But this was only the beginning of his bewilderment ; for 
by and by, when the minuet was over, the Lady Juliet 
was free to move among her father’s bidden guests, be- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. S17 

stowing here and there a gracious word or smile ; and to 
his amazement he found she was approaching him. 

“ Good -evening, Mr. Lindsay,” she said. ” Oh, you need 
not be afraid. No one can recognize you. Jack told me 
who you were.” 

” But I am afraid — horribly afraid,” he said. 

“Of what?” 

“ Of getting in the way, or doing something wrong ” 

“ No, no,” she said; and then she added, with a touch of 
gentle malice, “Won’t you walk down the stage with me? 
Will you give me your arm?” 

“Oh no, thank you, I’d rather not,” was the -instant 
and anxious answer. “ I feel safe where I am, thank you 
very much.” 

And surely this was the strangest and most dazzling and 
puzzling scene that any human being ever found himself 
in, whether in Verona, or New York, or anywhere else. 
Here is what his distracted ears were listening to— includ- 
ing his own voice; while his eyes would keep wandering 
from the Lady Juliet to her watchful cousin and her more 
magnanimous father: 

Tybalt. “Now by the stock and honor of my kin, To 
strike him dead I hold it not a sin.” 

Capulet. “ Why, how now, kinsman, wherefore storm 
you so?” 

Tybalt. “Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, A villain 
that is hioher come in spite. To scorn at our solemnity this 
night.” 

The Lady Juliet. “Surely, Mr. Lindsay, you do not 
think that any one can recognize you?” 

Walter Lindsay. “Not hitherto; but now all their 
opera-glasses are leveled at you ; and supposing I were to 
drop my mask by accident, what then?” 

Tybalt. “ It fits, when such a villain is a guest I’ll not 
endure him.” 

“Capulet. “He shall be endured! What, good-man 
boy! I say he shall. Goto!” 

The Lady Juliet. “I hear you are going to take Jack 
to some club to-night. Don’t let him sit up too late.” 

Walter Lindsay. “ Oh, I will look after him. But he 
doesn’t need looking after. Your brother Jack is a very 
good boy.” 

Tybalt. “Why, uncle, ’tis a shame!” 

Capulet. “Goto! Goto!” 

The Lady Juliet. “Well, I will say good-night now, 
Mr. Lindsay, for I sha’n’t see you again this evening. I 
don’t like seeing people after playing ‘Juliet.’ Good- 
night!” 


218 


SABINA y.EMBRA. 


Walter Lindsay (remembering his part, and bowing 
gravely) . ‘ ' Addio, signor ina. ’ ’ 

“ On the whole, however, he was more content when 
the slow procession filed off the stage, and when they 
found for him a corner from which he could look on at the 
ever beautiful balcony scene. And even here standing in 
the “ wings, ” among gasmen and carpenters and scene- 
shifters, it was still that magic night in Verona that was 
all around him; and it was not the young lady he had met 
in New York society that he saw before him ; but Juliet 
her very self, in all her impassionate tenderness, now 
startled and coy and timid, now generously confiding and 
bountiful in her love, and in her maiden charms 

“ More beautiful than whom Alcasus wooed, 

The Lesbian woman of immortal song!” 

Nay, so much was he impressed with the reality of the 
scene, that when Romeo, having uttered his last farewell, 
(5ame out of that moonlit garden, Lindsay, from some kind 
of delicacy, let him go by without speaking, and did not 
follow him to his dressing-room. On the contrary, he 
merely sent him a message to say that he did not vush to 
stay the performance out, but would come back for those 
two when it was over; and then he wandered forth into 
the busy streets of New York. To tell the truth, he rather 
wanted to make this a frolicsome night ; and even a winter 
in the Adirondacks had not wholly hardened up the sensi- 
tiveness of his artist’s temperament; very well he knew 
that the tragic spectacle of Juliet’s unnumbered woes was 
not the best beginning for a merry evening. 

And indeed, as it turned out, this midnight meeting of 
the monks proved to be a very gay affair when each had 
donned his cloak and hood of sober gray, and taken his 
place at the sumptuously furnished table. At first there 
was no kind of order in the proceedings; the business of 
supper had to be got through with; quips and jests and 
anecdotes of more or less doubtful veracity were bandied 
about anyhow ; and, as the wine flowed, there was abun- 
dant laughter found for even a fish story. But when the 
supper-tilings had been removed and cigars lit, the presi- 
dent from time to time tinkled his bell for silence; and in 
the pauses those who were able and willing joined in this 
or that old English glee— “ Dame Durden,” “ Calm be thy 
Slumbers,” “Ye Spotted Snakes,” “Here in Cool Grot,” 
and so forth. Likewise there were many nigger choruses; 
one especially being a favorite; for as each monk had to 
improvise a verse— no matter what — there was abundant 
oocasion for all kinds of personalities, the sting of which, 
of course, disappeared, or was drowned rather in the uni- 


BASINA ZEMBnA. 


210 


versal chorus of “ Balm of Gilead, Gilead!” It was a very 
careless and merry gathering; but the climax of these fes- 
tivities was neither careless nor merry, At a quarter to 
two the lights were lowered. Each monk drew forward 
his cowl, and sat with downcast head. And then, in the 
hushed silence, a powerful barytone began to sing— slowly 
and with clear enunciation— that grimmest and weirdest 
of all the Scotch ballads, “ The Twa Corbies,” while after 
each couplet the whole of the company took up the fan- 
tastic and mournful refrain. It was the old air, which is 
curiousl3' pathetic in its simplicity, that was sung; and 
scarcely less grewsome than the words themselves : 

“ And nae ane kens that he lies there 
But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair,” 

was the slow-chanted burden that followed : 

“ With a fal, lal lal, lal lal, lal lay, 

With a fal, lal lal, lal lay.” 

And then, when the tragic story was ended: 

“ Money’s the ane for him makes mane 
But nane shall ken where he is gane; 

Owre his white banes, when they are bare, 

The wind shall blaw forever mair.” 

And when the last deep-sounding, mournful notes: 

“ With a fal, lal lal, lal lal, lal lay, 

With a fal, lal lal, lal lay,” 

had died into silence, they rose from the table, the lights 
were turned up, cloaks and hoods put aside, and — some- 
what sobered by this mjrstic rite — the monks were free to 
go tlieir several waj’S home. 

Walter Lindsay, however, had rooms in this same hotel; 
and so, when the last of his friends had gone, he retired 
tliither, drew in a chair to the fire that was still burning, 
and took from his pocket a letter. Tt had come that morn- 
ing; it was from Janie; and although there was a good 
deal in it about her husband and their travels in Italy, the 
bulk of it (as of yore) was all about Sabina, and this w^as 
what he wanted to read over again, in seclusion and peace. 

“Sometimes we were amused, sometimes we were a 
little ashamed of ourselves,” the ever-faithful Janie wrote, 
“ to find how often the same idea was in our head going 
through those picture-galleries. When we went into a 
new room we almost invariabty made first for the most 
prominent Madonna subject. Bhilip would stand looking 
at it for some time. ‘Very curious; none of them quite 
seem to have her expression. There’s something about 
those eyebrows a little like.’ Then I (in sweet simplicity) : 

‘ But who is it you are thinking of, Phil?’ ‘ Oh, you know 
well enough. As if your beloved Sabie was ever for a 


220 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


moment out of your head ! And of course I’ve got to think 
of her sometimes — so as not to feel lonely; you can’t al- 
ways be wandering away by yourself. ’ But really it was 
he who began it, even before we were married, for he took 
me to the National Gallery, and we went over all the 
Madonnas carefully, but not one would do. This one was 
too cold and wooden, the other simpering, and so forth. 
Nor did we get on any better abroad. There’s one in the 
Louvre, the ‘ Vierge Aux Rochers,’ that has something of 
the calm look of Sable’s forehead: but her hair is more 
crimpled than Sable’s; and then you remember there is 
always a little trickiness in the smile of that woman that 
Leonardo used to paint. The most beautiful one we saw, 
‘The Assumption,’ in Venice — yes, that was very beauti- 
ful — but it was quite different from Sabie. She is so much 
more human, to my fancy, and looks at you so straight. 

“But if we failed before, you may imagine whether we 
are likely to succeed now. Phil and I went down the 
other day. Dear friend, I wish you could see her, if but 
for a moment. There is a look in her face that was never 
there before, even in the old days when she was at her hap- 
piest. I think she had quite given herself over to despair 
— though she would never complain — and I never wrote 
much to you about it, for I had not the heart to do so ; but 
now that she finds there is some consolation for her, and 
some call for her love and sympathy, and a constant inter- 
est in her lonely life, she seems overcome Avith a kind of 
wondering gratitude. If you could only see her stooping 
OA^er the little bed Avhere the child lies, and see the happi- 
ness in her face, and her delight in showing you all the 
little bits of finery and lace that she has made Avith her 
own fingers, you Avould understand how deeply, deeply 
thankful Ave all are that something has happened to make 
her life a little more bearable. Poor Sabie ! Who could 
ever have thought that this Avould be the end? living al- 
most alone in a cottage away from all her friends. But in 
spite of all her shreAvdness and high spirits she Avas ahvays 
romantically generous; it was invariably ‘ Give, give ’ with 
her: and so, to make up for a trumpery accident, she gave 
herself! That’s Avhat I call it; and many a time my heart 
was very sore about it when I savv the result, though I did 
not tell you everything ; but now I am glad to Avrite and 
say that she is a little happier. She laugfed once or twice 
the last time we were there — it’s such a long time since I 
heard our poor Sabie laugh. When Baby gets a little 
older Phil is going to ask a friend of his, Avho is a very 
skilled photographer, to go doAvn and take a group of 
mother and child ; and if it turns out Avell, be sure you will 
have a copy if you care to have it ; and as for me I know I 


SABINA ZEMBRA. *' 221 

shall far and away prefer it to any of the Madonnas we 
saw abroad. 

“We keep the house and studio as neat and pretty as 
we can, and occasionally have a few friends; and often 
enough, when I see them seated at the table, I think of 
the night that Sabie came to your supper- party, and 
looked so pretty as she sat next to you. I wonder if you 
remember the Indian silk dress, and the fichu of yellow 
lace, and the forget-me nots! Poor Sabie! there are no 
more of such nights for her now.” 

That was all that Janie had to report at present. And 
if it never occurred to her that she was doing a remark- 
ably ingenuous thing in writing out to Walter Lindsay to 
inform him that Mr. Fred Foster had been presented with 
a son— well, that did not occur to Lindsay either. It was 
as Sabie’s child that both of them regarded this new- 
comer. Janie rejoiced to see that at last some measure of 
happiness had been meted out to one whose life had of late 
been loveless enough ; Lindsay wondering in a vague sort 
of way whether Sabina had ever heard of the pet name 
that the Highland mother has for her infant— “ the lamb 
of my heart. ’ ’ But his thoughts and fancies went far fur- 
ther afield. During those solitary months in the Adiron- 
dacks he had been a good deal given to looking into the 
future, wdth no kind of despair or discontent whatever, 
but rather with a curious apathy. The long, forthcoming 
years looked empty somehow, and not very interesting; 
that was all. But with this letter of Janie’s lying on his 
knee — and as he sat far into the morning, with the fire in 
the grate slowJy dwindling down — other pictures began to 
form themselves. Strangely enough, neither Fred Foster 
nor Sabina were there ; he had forgotten them ; he did not 
see them. 

But he saw a young lad, tall for his age, and fair, with 
clear brown eyes, and a bright and gracious smile, and he 
saw himself, grave and grizzled and elderly, and yet half 
admiring the lad’s audacity and foolish opinions, walking 
by his side. This was in Gallow^ay. They had fishing-rods 
in their hands. And if the tall, proud-featured, but gentle- 
lipped youth had been talking willful perversity in politics, 
now he was all grave submission as his elderly companion 
began to select flies for him and show him w^here w^ere the 
likely casts in the stream. And not in Galloway alone 
(though the boy wmuld know that he was heir to a little 
estate in that county). Might not Mentor and Telemachus 
—always with their rods and fly-books accompanying 
them— enjoy many devious and distant wanderings, with 
lunch on the loch-side or the river-bank, and evenings be- 
fore the fire in the cozy room of the innf 


2533 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


Nay, Spring I’d meet by Tweed or Ail, 

And Summer by Loch Assynt’s deep, 

And Autumn in that lonely vale 
Where wedded Avons westward sweep. 

“ Or where, amid the empty fields, 

Among the bracken of the glen, 

Her yellow wreath October yields, 

To crown the crystal brows of Ken,” 

The elder of these two inseparable companions— whom 
he saw in those visionary pictures — was himself. And the 
other? Well, the lad had Sabina’s eyes. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AN EMBASSADOR.' 

Mr. Fred Foster was going down home by the ten 
o’clock train from Waterloo, and he had for companion a 
big, heavy, red-faced, good matured- looking man, who 
seemed in "much better spirits than his neighbor. 

“ No, no, Freddie, take my advice, and never back your- 
self at billiards unless you’re ahead, and in fairly good 
luck. You can’t play a losing game a bit; and bad luck 
drives you wild. Why, man, you can’t ram the balls 
into the pockets if they won’t go. Temper won’t do it, my 
lad.” 

“ And I suppose you wouldn’t get out of temper if you 
were playing with a cad like that?” was the retort. “I 
never saw such a sneak in all my life. His sole notion of 
the game was to pot the white and get double balk.” 

“ When a man thinks he’s going to land a tidy little 
twenty-five pounds, he doesn’t play to the gallery,” ob- 
served Mr. John Scott, sententiously. “ Well, well, old 
man, cheer up. It will be a lesson to you. You know you 
were just a little bit too eager to touch that young man’s 
chinks. A pony to a fiver, and thirty-five points in two 
hundred, that’s not good biz. That’s not billiard betting at 
all, unless you are to bar flukes. In a nomination game it 
might do; but with all the chances of luck against you, 
I'd be awful sure of my play before I backed myself at five 
to one.” 

“ The sneak wouldn’t bet at all without ridiculous odds 
—that’s what it was,” Foster said, rather morosely. 
“And if he had played a fair game, I should have won 
easily. Why, I’d lay him £100 to £10 to-morrow, and give 
him 200 in 1000 — to-morrow morning I’d do it!” 

“Yes,” said the other, dryly, “ but I think he has had 
enough. I think he will be quite content when he has got 
that twenty- five pounds in his trousers-pocket. ” 

“ He hasn’t got it there yet, then,” Foster said, gloom- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


223 


ily, “and I don’t see how he ‘is to get it just at present. 
My luck for the past four months has just been awful. It 
was the scratching of Theology for the Liverpool Cup that 
begun it— the most infernal swindle ever done on the turf 
that was— 1 am certain of it — a deliberate swUl^le; well, 
ever since that, every mortal thing has gone against me — 
every mortal thing. I seem to Jonah everything I touch.” 

“ Take ray advice and keep your noddle cool, then,” Mr. 
Scott said, pleasantly. “ I know you, Fred, my lad. 
When they get you in a corner, you are inclined to put 
down your head and butt. But that’s not the way to play 
the great game. No, no, keep cool, and bide your chance.” 

“ There’s an awful amount of advice about this even- 
ing,” Foster was goaded into saying. “ Very kind of you, 
I am sure, Mr. Scott. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind also 
me a pony for a week or "two, to settle up with that 



sneak r’ 


The suggestion was merely a bit of sarcasm, but Mr. 
Scott took it blandly enough. 

“My dear boy,” he said, in a tone of gentle remon- 
strance, “ didn’t I toll you what they did to me at Shrews- 
bury? If King of Tralee hadn’t pulled off the Shropshire 
Handicap I should have had to come home on shank's 
mare.” 

Mr. Scott left the train at Epsom ; Foster went on to 
Witstead. At the little station only one other passenger 
got out— a gentleman of the neighborhood, who jauntily 
stepped into his comfortably-lit brougham, and was rap- 
idly driven ; ' saving his fellow -traveler to find his 



The night was pitch-dark, the air 


way home 


thick with a cold, raw drizzle, the roads heavy with mire; 
and as Fred Foster had to exercise the utmost caution to 
prevent his stumbling into the ditch, his reflections were 
none of the most genial kind. 

“Sir Anthony Zembra at the Mansion House — great 
oration — generous appeal— check for five hundred guineas 
— cheers. Sir Anthony Zembra entertains prime minister 
at Waldegrave Club— proceedings strictly private. Sir 
Anthony Zembra arrived at the castle, and had the honor 
of dining, etc. Yes ; and Sir Anthony Zembra’s son-in-law 
finds himself slouching along a muddy country lane, like a 
tramp in search of a night’s lodging, with precious little 
prospects of supper before him.” 

Nor were his meditations much enlivened by the appear- 
ance of Wayside Cottage when eventually he arrived 
there. All the lower windows were dark. In one of the 
upper windows there was the faintest yellow tinge, prob- 
ably a night-light was burning in the room. So he 
knocked and rang, knocked and rang, until a sharper light 


224 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


appeared there ; and then he waited ; and by and by, Sabina 
herself, wrapped from head to foot in a large shawl, and 
bearing a candle in her hand, opened the door for him. 

“ Wha^ the use of going to bed in the middle of the 
day?” he^ked, surlily, as he entered. 

” It is past eleven,” was the mild answer; “but I would 
have waited up any time if I had known you were com- 
ing.” 

“ Fire out, I suppose,” he said, as he preceeded her into 
the little dining-room. 

Unmistakably it was out. 

She lit the two lamps on the sideboard, and said she was 
sorry she had not known he was coming; but would she 
get him some supper? She could easily do that without 
waking the girl. 

“ Has that check come down to-day?” he asked. 

“No; it is only due to-day; I suppose it will come to-mor- 
row,” she answered; and then she added, rather pite- 
ously, “But, Fred, surely you do not want any of that 
money !” 

For she owed some small sums in Epsom. But that was 
not all. The baby was now old enough to be promoted 
from a cradle to a cot ; and she had seen a very neat-looking 
one in Epsom; and she had looked forward to the patient 
adornment of it by her own hands as a welcome labor of 
love in the slow hours. Nay, she had even procured the 
materials for the purj)ose; and had foreshadowed the most 
cunning little elegancies ; and had designed, in Old English 
letters, a scroll to hang at the head of it : 

“ Gute Nacht, du susses Kind, 

Mogen Engel dich behuten, 

Und der Schlummer leis und lind, 

Streue dir die schonsten Bluthen.” 

And she had promised herself the happiness of purchasing 
this cot as soon as the check from her father arrived; it 
was an extravagance, she knew ; but she had set her heart 
on it. 

“Why, of course I want some of it!” he said, sharply. 
“ I wish you knew the straits I am in. I suppose you 
wouldn’t mind if I were locked up in Holloway Jail?” 

“ Oh, Fred, don’t talk that way 1” she entreated. 
“ Don’t let us quarrel about nothing. See, there is a 
letter on the mantle-piece -from Buckinghamshire— there 
is bad news — your mother is not well.” 

This brought him to his senses in an instant. 

“It came four days ago,” she said, as he went to the 
fireplace. 

“ Then why didn’t you send it to me?” 

“You know I hadn’t your address,” she said; but by 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 225 

this time he was wholly engrossed with the contents of the 
letter. 

It was Avritten by old Mr. Foster ; and the animus of the 
old gentleman against his son was clearly shown by the 
fact that the latter was not mentioned or referred to in any 
way whatsoever. It was their prayer that Sabina and her 
child should live with the old people, who would do every- 
thing in their power to make her comfortable. The en- 
treaty was sent at the earnest request of Mrs. Foster, Avho 
could not herself Avrite just then, as she Avas ill and in bed. 
The long- continued cold and wet had affected her general 
health ; a bad cough had supervened on that, and it was 
feared her lungs Avere more or less affected. Still, no im- 
mediate alarm was felt ; only the old lady seemed anxiously 
to wish to knoAv that her daughter was near her, as she 
said; and she sent many and many kindly messages. 
Finally, would Sabina at once send a telegram in reply? It 
would give Mrs. Foster great pleasure to hear that she 
was coming, and they Avould begin to make preparations 
to receive her. 

“Of course, it’s impossible,” Fred Foster rather im- 
patiently said. “I’m not going to live doAvn there— unless 
the writters make it too hot for me to live anywhere else. ’ ’ 

And then he said more gently : 

‘ ‘ I should like to run doAvn and see hoAV the mater is, if 
it wasn’t for the expense.” 

“ Oh, Fred,” Sabina said, “ Avhy should that hinder you? 
The money Avill be here to-morroAv — by the mid-day post 
at latest. Of course you must go and see your mother.” 

“No,” he said, somewhat sulkily. “No, I don’t want 
any of that money. I can do without it. You keep it.” 

“But really I can-do without the Avhole of it,” Sabina 
said— for she was a generous-hearted kind of creature. 
“Really I can. I have a few bills to pay; and then I 
thought of buying Baby a cot ” 

. “ Why? Isn’t the cradle good enough?” he said, turning 
to her. 

“They sav a cot is healthier. But Baby can wait,” 
Sabina said, "cheerfully. “ There’s not much the matter 
with his health, the dear.” 

“ Well, go to your bed, noAv. I’m going to smoke a pipe 
—and consider the best way of keeping Out of jail. 

So Sabina Avent aAvay, sincerely hoping that he Avould go 
down to Missenden on the morrow ; f^- he Avas always 
more considerate to her, and more reasonable, and a little 
less selfish, when he had been, even for the briefest space, 
under his mother’s roof. 

But next morning his mood had changed — as frequently 
happened with him. 


226 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“The old man has been pitching it strong about the 
health,” he said, “in order to get you to promise 
to go down. Oh, I know liis games. He has done that be- 
fore Avith mo. I should like to hear more definite news 
before going aAvay down there, and spending money on a 
Avild-goose chase. By the Avay, I think I shall have to ask 
you for afiA^er out of that check if it comes to-day.” 

“ Very Avell, Fred.” And then she said: “Just look at 
Bab}" ; I think he’s going to be an artist. It is quite extra- 
ordinary the fascination that anything with colors on it 
has for him. From the very first he wouldn’t look at the 
silver mug that Janie gave him ; but that one is his favorite 
plaything. Fancy Mr. Lindsay taking all the trouble to 
have that made in America and sent over.” 

‘ ‘ If you had any common sense you Avould lock it aAvay 
in a drawer,” he said, briefly. “A pretty catch for a 
thief, that, with all those stones. ’ ’ 

The check did not come by the first post, so he had to 
kick his heels about the house Avaiting for the second. On 
one occasion, Avhen Sabina came into the room, she found 
him reading over again the letter she had shown him the 
previous night. He threw it on the table contemptuously. 

“ It’s pretty clever,” he said. 

“What is?” 

“ The proposal that you should go down and live at Mis- 
senden. Very ingenious that is; quite Avorthy of the old 
boy.” 

“ But I don’t understand, Fred.” 

“Th(^ get you down there, and expect me to go, too. 
Either I do or I don’t. If I don’t— as I certainly shouldn’t 
— he cuts off my alloAA^ance; that’s what he’s after; and 
there’s so much saved. But if I Avere to go, then Ave 
should only cost them Avhat Ave ate and drank in the house 
— cheap, you know.” 

“Oh, Fred, Avhy should you look at it like that!” Sabina 

f )rotested. “ Isn’t it natural they should wish us to go and 
ive with them — especially if your mother is not Avell, and 
perhaps a little anxious and fretting. AnyAvay, what am 
I to telegraph?” 

“What is the uge of telegraphing?” he said. “Write 
and say it is impossible.” 

HoAvever, neither letter nor telegram Avas necessary. 
Scarcely had Sabina left the room Avhen Fred Foster heard 
some one at the Ij^le gate outside, and, turning, saAv to his 
quick alarm that it was bis father. Instantly he went to 
the door and opened it. 

“How is mother?” he asked, breathlessly. 

The old gentleman, at least, Avas in no hurry. He even 
seemed unwilling to speak to his ^?on. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. S27 

“She is just about the same,” he said, coldly, as he 
passed into tlie hall. “ I suppose Sabina is at home?” 

“Yes, I’ll fetch her.” 

The old man went into the dining-room, put his umbrella 
in a corner, and his wide-awake on the table, but he kept 
on his Inyeriiess cape when he sat down. He was looking 
around him with no very amiable expression ; perhaps he 
had not expected to find his son at home. However, his 
face brightened a little when Sabina came into the room ; 
and he gave her some more definite particulars about Mrs. 
Foster’s condition. 

“ You got my letter?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes, but I could not telegraph until Fred came 
home.” 

“ Oh, he has been away — that was it,” the old man 
said. “I thought it strange. A.nd — and as I had some 
business with my lawyers in London, it occurred to me 
that I might as well run down and take back the answer 
myself. ’ ’ 

It was a pretty lame excuse for this sudden and un- 
announced visit, the real object of which was obvious 
enough. 

“Well, and how long does your husband propose to con- 
tinue this folly?” he asked, looking round the room. 

“If you mean living in this house, ” said Fred Foster, 
with a levity which was dangerously ill-timed, “ I assure 
you I couldn’t get a cheaper one anywhere, for I haven’t 
paid a farthing for it.” 

“Then you owe money for it — that you expect me to 
pay?” the old man said, turning sharply to his son; and 
Sabina, fearing what might ensue, thought she could not do 
better than fly away quickly and get Baby made presenta- 
ble, and bring him down to act as peace- maker. 

“Indeed, she had not been many minutes in the room, 
her fingers as busy as ever they could with the adornment 
of her precious charge, when she could hear pretty plainly 
that there was a battle royal raging below. Now there 
was no gentle-eyed mother to interpose between these two; 
and it was clear from the beginning that the old man had 
come down in a suspicious and resentful mood against his 
son. Moreover, she guessed that the father must have 
thrown out some unusually bitter taunts, for it was not 
customary with Fred Foster to get angry. He was too 
selfish and indifferent for that. He could sulk; but ordi- 
narily he would not take the trouble to storm. Nnd when 
at last she was enabled to hurry down-stairs— the voices 
ceased as she opened the door — it was clear that Fred 
Foster no longer wore any mask of levity ; he was standing 
with his back to the window, but even with his face in 


228 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

shadow, her swift glance told her he was scowling, angrj^ 
and tight-lipped. 

She drew in a chair close to the old man, so that the 
wonderful Baby might be properly admired. 

“ Isn’t he growing a big boy?” she said, proudly. 

“ I have a little present for him from his grandmother,” 
Mr. Foster said, and he took out from his purse a carefully 
folded ten-pound bank-note. “This is to go into the Post- 
office Savings-bank in his own name, she says, and you are 
to add a little when you can; and then when he grows up 
a bit he will be able to buy himself a pony.” 

Of course Sabina thanked the old gentleman; and made 
believe that Baby understood all that was being arranged 
for him, and was, indeed, quite an interested party. 

“Do you remember, perhaps,” Mr. Foster continued, 
and he looked at his daughter-in-law with a little hesita- 
tion, “the corner room at the end of the passage — over- 
looking the greenhouses?” 

“Oh yes, perfectly,” she answered. 

“We were thinking — my wife was thinking — that 
might do for a nursery— if you were coming to live with 
us.” 

“ Yes?” Sabina said: what more could she say? 

The old man paused for a second or two. 

“ What answer am I to take back?” he asked. “May I 
say that we are to expect you V ’ 

Sabina involuntarily turned to her husband. 

“Oh, you may do as you like,” Fred Foster said, 
curtly. “ I’m not going to live in Missenden. I can’t af- 
ford it.” 

“ You can’t afford it— but you can afford to keep up this 
separate house !” the old man retorted; but he would say 
no more; Sabina was there. 

He turned to her. 

“What do you say, my dear?” he asked, very gently. 

“lam sure Fred would like to go and see his mother- 
will you tell her that he will come and see her?” Sabina 
said, timidly. 

“ But that is not it,” the old man said, plainly. “Surely 
you must understand that it is for your own sake as much 
as for ours that we want to see you settled down into a 
quiet, respectable life. We offer you a home. We will do 
our best to make you comfortable. If the ways of the 
house don’t suit you, we will alter them. I don’t think 
you will find us unkind or inconsiderate. I dare say my 
wife would say more to you, but you see she is ill, and 
cannot come to ask you herself ; and what I have said is 
perhaps badly said— only I would rather see my daughter- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


229 


ill-law ill a settled home than moving from place to place 
in furnished lodgings.” 

It was a cruel position for her to be placed in, for the 
offer was meant in all kindness; but she did not hesitate. 

“You have heard what Fred said, sir,” she answered, 
calmly. “And of course I must remain with my hus- 
band.” 

“ That is your final decision?” 

Her eyes were bent to the ground ; and it was in a rather 
low voice— for she knew to what she was condemning 
herself— that she said : 

“Yes.” 

He rose then. 

“ But don’t go yet,” she pleaded. “ Won’t you stay and 
have some lunch with us?” 

“ No, thank you; I must try and get back to Missenden 
to-night. ’ ’ 

As he was leaving the room — he did not even bid good- 
bye to his son — he said to Sabina: 

“ Come here, I want to speak with you.” 

She followed him into the passage, where he opened the 
door for himself. 

“ Mind, child, I have no quarrel witli you,” he said, in a 
very different voice from that he had used in the room. 
“ Whatever we can do for your good, we will do. It was 
that that brought me here to-day.” 

“But don’t quarrel with Fred, either,” she pleaded, 
earnestly. “Indeed, he spkiks the truth. He has been so 
used to an active life— here and there— that it is hardly a 
wonder he shrinks from tying himself down to Missenden 
all at once. Perhaps he might get more familiar with the 
idea by and by. Or he might try it for a time. But don’t 
part with him in anger.” 

“ I have nothing further to say on that head,” the old 
man said, somewhat coldly. “Except this, that I don’t 
choose to support him aiiy longer in idleness. I thought 
when he married there would be a change. There is no 
change — except for the worse, as far as I can see. My pa- 
tience is out. From this day he will not touch a penny of 
my money — it is simply monstrous that in hard times like 
these, when farms are going a-begging, we should be sup- 
plying him with money foi* horse-racing and gambling. 
No, from this day the allowance we have hitherto made 
him shall be paid —put into 5mur hands, for the support of 
yourself and your liousehold. That is settled. So good- 
bye, and God bless you, my child. I’ll have a lot of ques- 
tions to answer about the baby.” 

Sabina, when she returned to the room, did not say any- 
thing about this decision on the part of the old gentleman; 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


for" she thought that it was perhaps merely a threat— 
the temporary result of impatience and anger. As for 
Fred Foster, he seemed to take his father’s visit very 
coolly. 

“Somebody has been telling him a pack of lies about 
me, that’s what it is,” he said. “ And didn’t I tell you he 
was pitching it strong about the mater's illness?— of course, 
if she had been so very ill, he would not have come all the 
way here. And the story about his lawyers— very good ! 
I know why he came down in that sudden fashion : it was 
to spy out the land. Wonder if he expected to find a wild 
carnival going on— fountains spouting champagne— and 
Nautch-girls lolling about on marble steps? Doesn’t look 
like it, somehow.” 

With the second post came the looked -for check ; and 
when Sabina had signed it, he put it in his pocket, saying 
he would get it cashed in London, and send her down the 
balance after retaining the five pounds. 

“ Five pounds,” he said, as he leisurely put on his over- 
coat and brushed his hat; “ it isn’t a large sum to set about 
the retrieving of your fortunes with. I dare say some fel- 
lows could work it out into five hundred pounds, or five 
thousand pounds, before the end of the year; but that 
doesn’t seem to be my line at present. ’’ 

“Are you going back to London already?” she asked— 
but with no reproach in her tone. 

“ I suppose one must try to do something,” he said, care- 
lessly ; the check in his pocket was in some small degree 
comforting. 

And then he said : 

“Look here, you don’t really mean to bury that ten- 
pound note in the savings bank? What nonsense that is! 
Our circumstances are not suggestive of opening bank ac- 
counts. What are you going to do with it^’ 

“Fred,” she said, looking at him, “you wouldn’t touch 
that f It’s from your mother. It’s for Baby.” 

He pulled himself together. 

“No, no; that is all right. Go and bury it in the sav- 
ings bank, if you like. Though the pony seems to me a 
long way off.” 

By and by he left for the station, and Sabina was once 
more in solitary possession of the house. Yet not quite 
solitary, either. She went up to her room ; the baby was 
in its cradle, and asleep. Perhaps the sound of her foot on 
the stairs, perhaps the opening of the door, had disturbed 
the child; but he moved a little as she crept forward on 
tiptoe; and presently she was kneeling down beside him, 
quieting him with velvet fingers, and crooning over him— 


SABINA ZEMBRA. m 

but so gently that she could scarce hear her own voice--the 
song that Janie had got for her: 

“ Oh, can ye sew cushions, 

A.nd can ye sew sheets, 

And can yc sing ballaloo 
When the bairn greets? 

And hie and baw birdie. 

And hie and baw lamb. 

And hie and baw birdie. 

My bonny wee lamb.” 

She liked this song — its old-fashioned words and pathetic 
air. But when she was hushing the child to sleep— or 
walking about with him in her arms— and even when she 
was at her loneliest, with her heart at times pretty heavy 
within her— she did not make the plaintive air too sad. 
For well she knew that it is not when the mother cries that 
the babe smiles. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

TOO late! 

“I SUPPOSE you would like me to pawn my wife’s 
wedding ring?” 

It was Fred Foster who spoke in this hurt way; and it 
was his friend Jim Deane whom he addressed. But all the 
usual good humor was absent now from Mr. Deane’s small,, 
ferrety, clear eyes, and from the weather-pinched face, 
Avith its lined features and small, neat whiskers. For 
there was no Sabina present to mollify his manner. Rather 
he seemed to be following his wife’s brisk counsel of the 
year before— that he should no longer submit to Foster’s 
superior airs ; and indeed at this moment his expression 
was far from being placable. The two men were in a small 
apartment at the top of a house in Wellington Street, 
Strand, Avhich now constituted Fred Foster’s lodging when 
he had to stay in town of a night. 

“ Pawn it or sell it, that don’t concern me,” Avas the re- 
tort. ” But Avhat I Avant you to understand is, that I am 
not going to go on renewing that bill every three months. 
Mind, I don’t like the look of the transaction at all. I 
don’t think it Avould look Avell in court. You take over a 
horse and trap; give a bill for the amount; then you sell 
them ; but instead of taking up the bill Avhen it is due, it 
appears that, you stuffed the money into your own pocket 
and spent it. Well, now, you know ” 

“Oh, what’s the use of talking like that!” Foster im- 
patiently broke in. “ You Avould have had the money long 
ago if I hadn’t struck such a cursed vein of ill-luck. Just 
look at Altcar last week. Did you ever see such luck? 


m 


SABWA ZEMBRA, 


Shrapnell breaking her leg, and Tricksy Kitty and The Lad 
coming to grief almost immediately after. How can you 
expect any one to be in funds?” 

” And there is that house,” continued the other. ” You 
have been in it all this time, and not one penny of rent 
paid! Well, I can’t afford to find people in furnished 
liouses all for nothing.” 

‘‘You’ve come to town in a pretty temper, Jim,” Foster 
remarked, coolly. ‘ ‘ Why, I took over the house and the 
things to oblige you — you wanted to be off to Newmarket 
in such a hurry. ’ ’ 

‘‘To oblige me?” Mr. Deane repeated. “Well, you’ll 
oblige me by clearing out; that’s all I’ve got to say. I’ll 
forfeit the rent up till now; but I don’t mean to be made a 
fool of any longer.” 

“ Why, man, do you think you could let the house at 
this time of the year?” 

“ That is my affair.” 

“Come, be reasonable, Jim,” Foster said, in more con- 
ciliatory tones. “ You know very well that I always 
meant to pay you, and mean it now. It isn’t like you to 
be hard on a fellow who is down on his luck ; and the luck 
I’ve experienced of late would melt the heart of a grind- 
stone. Anybody deader broke than l am at the present 
moment I can’t imagine: But it won’t last; it can’t last. 
Just give me till Sandown Grand Prize, and then you’ll 
see. ” 

Deane’s small eyes brightened up a little. 

' “What are you on — Victory or Cherry-band?” 

“ Cherry -band.” 

“ Cherry -band is a very good horse,” he remarked, 
slowly. 

“ I got on him at eight to one,” Foster said, with some 
cheerfulness. 


“And what do you stand to win, if it’s a fair question?” 
the other asked. 

“Well, I put everything I could scrape together on him 
—every scrap; but you may suppose it wasn’t millions. 
Why, that’s been the worst of my luck ; when I have pulled 
off a good thing there’s been nothing on worth speaking 
of.” 


“Cherry -band is a good horse over the sticks,” Deane 
said, contemplatively. 

“ We’ll go across to the Gayety bar,” said Foster, per- 
ceiving that Mr. Deane had grown more amenable, “and 
drink his good health. It’s Cherry-band has got to pull 
me through.” 

When they were over the way, Foster, whose tempera- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 233 

nient could move from one extreme to another with re- 
markable facility, said to his companion : 

“Look here, Jim, I’m so certain of 'this thing coming all 
right that I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you— here, now, 
at this very counter. If you are worrying about the rent 
of the house, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll get paper and 
ink and write down to my wife, directing her to send you 
a certain sum every month out of the household money. 
You may depend it will be paid ; for she’s as methodical 
as clock-work; and so is her precious prig of a father, too, 
although I believe he would prefer to see us both starving. 
Now will that do? And how much is it to be?” 

Mr. Deane looked somewhat uneasy. 

“N— no, I don’t think I will trouble Mrs. Foster,” he 
said, with some hesitation. “Business is business, of 
coui’se; but I prefer dealing with men.” 

“ Then you are content to wait to see what Wednesday 
does for me?” 

“Y— yes.” 

“Now,” Foster continued, boldly, “ will you lend me a 
tenner to put on Cherry -band?” 

“No, I will not,” Deane said, with much sharpness. 
“Why, you’re out of your senses!” 

“It’s always the way,” Foster said, plaintively; “when 
I’ve got hold of a real good thing, a moral, it always hap- 
pens just then that I am out of funds, and lose my chance.” 

“And what if Cherry-band shouldn’t pull it off?” his 
companion said, eying him. 

Foster laughed in a curious kind of way. 

“We’d better not speak about that.” 

It was in the interval between this conversation and the 
Sandown Park Meeting that Fred Foster learned, for the 
first time, that henceforth his father meant to forward his 
quarterly allowance to Sabina ; in fact it was on one of his 
occasional visits to Wayside Cottage that the check ar- 
rived, payable to her order. And he chose to be very 
angry about the circumstance, despite her remonstrances. 

“What difference will it make?” she said. “ You will 
get the money all the same.” 

“ Why did you hide it from me all this time that he had 
spoken to you about it?” he asked, roughly enough. 

“ I— I did not hide it. I thought perhaps it was only a 
threat,” she said. “ Indeed, I had no wish that he should 
do anything of the kind.” 

“He thinks he can twist you round his finger. Wants 
you to go to Missenden ! Oh, yes. I wonder what he will 
try next? Anyhow, this check comes in handy enough, 
for I’m off to Sandown to-morrow - so you’d better sign it 
now.” 


284 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ But, Fred, you don’t mean to take the whole of it 
away with you!” she pleaded. 

” Oh, you needn’t imagine I am going to risk all of it on 
horses,” he said. “There’s something more immediate 
than that. The Collinsons have a writ out against me— 
the contemptible cads ! — and I must get it squared. That 
comes of doing people a kindness. I wonder how many 
people I have got to try their champagnes— without a 
farthing of commission. But every one’s hand is turned 
against me just now. Here’s Deane rowing about the rent 
of this house, when he ought to have been glad to have the 
place kept warm and dry through such a winter. Oh, I’ve 
had some nice experiences of late of human gratitude; I 
could write a book about it. As soon as you're down in 
your luck, then the truth comes out. If you can ask them 
to dinner, and give them the best of everything, then it's 
‘My dear fellow,’ all over the place; or if they fancy 
you’re on good terms with some of the trainers, they are 
ready to black your boots; but the moment your luck 
turns against you, then it’s ‘Pay up, or you’ll be in the 
County Court next week.’ Well, we’ll see what Wednes- 
day does. I hope it will be the turning-point. I’ve had 
ill-luck before, but never such a run; the time has come 
for a change surely.” 

“ It seems such a pity, Fred,” she ventured to say (for 
she was thinking of the small boy up stairs, and of many 
little plans and schemes she had been drawing out on his 
behalf), “that you should let everything hang on a mere 
chance. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, I know,” he returned, scornfully; “that is 
what women always say. It’s such a pity we’re not all 
angels. Well, I never pretended to be one. Besides, the 
question doesn’t interest me. What does interest me is 
whether Cherry-band is going to win the Grand Prize at 
Sandown on Wednesday — that interests me a very great 
deal, I can tell you.” 

He paused for a second or two, staring into the fire, 
and then he rose and went and filled a pipe. 

“Oh, he must,” he said, half to himself, and indeed as 
if he were inclined to laugh at himself. “He must, he 
must, he must. Every man and lad in the stable has put 
his last farthing on him. He’s ten pounds better than 
Ciyddesho.” 

She came to him with the check. 

“ Here it is, Fred, but don’t be reckless.” 

“I’m not reckless!” he said, turning upon her. “I tell 
you we simply can’t live on the income we have at present, 
and when I try to make things a little better, you say I arn 
reckless! You don’t suppose any human being can have a 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


235 


constant run of good-luck. I had a fair slice of it after we 
were married, and you didn’t complain then. You must 
take the bad with the good, like other people: and it’s no 
use, when things are bad, when one is trying one’s best to 
pull through— I say it’s pure nonsense to talk about reck- 
lessness!” 

But that was neither his tone nor his manner when, early 
on the morning after the Sandown Grand Prize had been 
run for. he came back to Witstead. For the tii*st time in 
their life together, Sabina saw him thoroughly cowed ; he 
was pale and agisted, and at the same time unusually reti- 
cent. No wonder she was alarmed. 

“ What is the matter, Fred?” she asked. 

“ Everything is the matter,” he answered, curtly. 

He went up-stairs to his dressing-room, and got together 
a few things which he brought down and proceeded to put 
hurriedly into his bag, and while doing so made her some 
brief explanation. 

“ I must get out of the way for a little while, that’s all,” 
he said. “I’m in a mess. 1 must clear out and get away 
until I see how things are to be squared.” 

“ Where are you going, Fred?” she asked, calmly. 

“You’d better not know. You can say you don’t 
know. But, look here, whatever money you can send me 
— and you may imagine I shall have need of every penny 
— you can send to Captain Eaby ; he will know how to pass 
it on.” 

He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper. 

“That is his address. If you send post-office orders, 
make them payable to him, not to me.” 

“ Is — is everything gone, Fred?” she ventured to ask. 

“Everything? I should think so. Everything!” 

She went forward and put her hand on his arm. 

“ Fred, will you let this be the end, now? I should not 
regret the loss of the money if only you would promise to 
have done with betting. Will you?” 

He shook off her hand. 

“Oh, don’t talk. Cherry-band was drugged. I saw it 
the moment I clapped eyes on him. He was quite dazed 
and helpless when they pulled him out to run. Well, it 
has done for me. Even if the owner and trainer find out 
the scoundrel, that won’t help me. What money have 
you in the house?” 

The sudden question startled her. Clearly he was bent 
on immediate flight. 

“A little over four pounds, I think,” she answered. 

“ Well, I must have it,” he said, briefly. 

“ Fred !” 

“Now don’t make a fuss, but go and get it. Do you 


236 SABINA ZE3IBRA. 

think this is a time for talking? I can tell you it’s more 
serious than that.” 

He had finished his packing by this time, and had gone 
to the sideboard for a piece of cake and a glass of spirits. 

Sabina said nothing further, but went away up-stairs, 
slowly and stealthily, for the child was lying asleep. 

On the landing, however, she paused irresolute. She 
could just hear within the girl she had left in charge hush- 
ing the baby, and, indeed, making some effort to imitate 
the cradle-song that Sabina was used to croon. But it was 
not to listen she stood there, it was to bring her mind to 
this robbery of her child, as she considered it ; and at last 
she gave way— she could not do it. She went down again 
to the room. 

“ No,” she said, with her face grown very pale, “ I will 
not do it, Fred ; I cannot be so mean. It is not of myself 
I am thinking. If I were starving I would not complain ; 
but it’s the child— if he were taken ill— and nothing in the 
house ” 

“Oh, if you won’t get it, I must fetch it for myself, I 
suppose,” he said; and up-stairs he went to the bedroom, 
where he found no difficulty in getting the money out of 
her desk. A few minutes thereafter he had gone from the 
house, and was on his way to the station. 

And so Sabina was once more left helpless and penniless 
and alone ; and it is hardly to be wondered at that more 
than ever, if that were possible, she prized and treasured 
the one consolation of her solitary existence. The child 
became the very life of her life; the source of any glimmer 
of joy that shot athwart these darkened days; the one 
cheerful thing she could think of as regarded the future. 
She was angry and indignant with the little maid servant 
for not understanding what Baby said— efforts at conver- 
sation which were mostly the creation of the mother’s 
fancy; she wrote wonderful accounts to Janie of his ex- 
ploits and qualities; when Baby was pleased she was 
happy, and for the moment forgot everything else. In- 
deed it was oftentimes with a wondering gratitude that 
amid all her dumb fears for the future, and her present 
anxieties and trouble, she could turn to this other living 
creature, as much concerned as herself, but so happily 
unconscious. She would sing the cradle-song to him : 

“Now hush-a-baw, laminie, 

And hush-a-baw, dear. 

Now hush-a-baw, lammie, 

Thy minnie is here; 

The wild wind is ravin’, 

Thy minnie’s heart’s sair, 

The wild wind is ravin’, 

But ye dinna care.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 207 

And very glad was she to take the last of these lines as 
solace to herself. It may be mentioned that Walter Lind- 
say, incidentally, of course, asked Janie, in a letter, 
whether it was likely that Sabina had heard of the High- 
land mother’s pet name for her child — “ the lamb of my 
heart;” and it is to be guessed that that piece of informa- 
tion was not long in finding its way down to Witstead. 
Sabina was glad to have the pretty phrase ; the fact im- 
plied in it she had already found out for herself. 

But soon this uneventful solitude was to be startled by 
unwelcome news. • Old Mr. Foster wrote: 

“Dear Daughter-in-law,— Mother has grown much 
worse. She anxiously wishes to see you and the boy, if it 
is possible. Tell Fred he must come at once.” 

She feared what this might mean; and instantly tele- 
graphed to Captain Raby for her husband’s address. To 
her astonishment and indignation, instead of answering 
this telegram forthwith. Captain Raby made his appear- 
ance at Wayside Cottage, and hoped that she would com- 
mand his services in any possible way, if he could be of as- 
sistance to her. She briefly answered that all she wanted 
was to know where her husband was at that moment. She 
remained standing, her tall figure drawn up to its full 
height, her mouth firm, her eyes proud and invincible. 

It was he who was somewhat abashed; and he began to 
make a few excuses for his visit— saying it was necessary 
just then to be a little cautious in revealing Fred Foster’s 
whereabouts, and the like. And then, twirling his waxed 
mustache the while, he endeavored to introduce a little 
bland facetiousness about Mr. Foster’s ways and weak- 
nesses; and clearly wished to be asked to sit down and pro- 
long the interview. Sabina had no such intention in her 
head. With cold insistence she got from him, if not her 
husband’s actual address, at least the name of a person in 
Yorkshire who was in communication with him; and then 
with a formal “Thank you; good- morning,” Captain 
Raby found himself dismissed, and free to return to Lon- 
don. His temper was not improved by this visit, as one or 
two of his associates discovered that afternoon. 

Sabina, not understanding precisely why her husband 
should wish to remain concealed for the moment, con- 
cluded that it would be better not to telegraph to him ; but 
she wrote him an urgent letter, telling him of the news 
she received, and begging him at once to go down to Buck- 
inghamshire. As for herself, he would know it was im- 
possible for her to go ; she had not got the money, for one 
thing. 

She posted the letter at once; but she might have spared 


‘288 


SABINA ZKAWRA. 


herself the trouble. The very next morning there came a 
telegram. She opened it with trembling fingers; it con- 
tained a brief and laconic message* from a broken-hearted 
old man— “Do not come. All is over.'''' Sabina let the 
paper fall on to the table. That gentle-eyed woman had 
been very, very kind to her. And it seemed so pitiless 
that the one idol of her life — for whom she had striven so 
much, for whom she had sacrificed so much— should not 
liave been with her in her last hours. It was impossible 
that he could have got the letter. It was next to impossi- 
ble that any intelligence of the approaching end could have 
reached him. 

It was three days after that, and late in the evening, 
that Fred Foster suddenly made his appearance at Way - 
side Cottage. She was horrified beyond measure at the 
sight of him. He was as one demented ; his face Avhite and 
haggard ; his eyes furtive, and yet with a strange glare in 
them ; and his clothes were crumpled and soiled, as if he 
had been asleep on the floor of a third-class carriage. 

“Did you get my letter?” she said, breathlessly. 

“ What letter?” he said— and his speech was thick in his 
throat. “No, I got no letter. I saw the — the announce- 
ment in the Times. M}' God!” 

He was pacing up and down the room, like some wild 
beast in a cage. 

‘ ‘ Did she send no message to me? Was there no message 
for me? That’s what I have come for. Surely — surely— a 
word ” 

“Here is the letter from your father,” she said, gravely; 
and she handed it to him. 

He glanced hurriedly over it, and then, with a slight cry 
as of pain, he threw himself on the sofa, face downward, 
and broke out into a wild fit of sobbing. She was terrified. 
For a young woman, she had seen a great deal of human 
sorrow, but she had never seen a man so moved before. 

“I wish I was dead, too,” he said, in broken sentences, 
between the sobs ; “and it would be better for everybody. 
Oh, I can see it well enough. I wish I had never been 
born. It’s been my luck all the way through to bring mis- 
ery to every one. And what’s the use of holding on now, 
when you can only do more and more harm? It’s no good 
trying any more now; everything’s against me. And 
there she has gone away, just when I was at the worst. 
But— but I can make reparation— to others. The old man 
wpn’t have to fret any more. Why did you ever marry 
me? I told you what kind of fellow I was. I might have 
been better if there had been a little luck ; but it was all 
against me. And you’ll be all right; you are a strong 
woman. Yes, you are a stronger woman than I am a man. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


siay 

Blit there is something you are not strong enough to do, 
and I am going to do it; it’s the only thing I can do now. 
I ani going out of tliis world altogether— it’s the only rep- 
aration I can make. If the poor old mater knew, she 
would say I was doing right ” 

Sabina went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. 

“Fred, you must not talk like that! Tell me, are you 
going to the funeral?” 

“ I daren’t — I daren’t,” he groaned. “ I would kill m}"- 
self on her grave. And perhaps the best thing, too, that 
could happen, for it’s all over now.” 

“No, no; don’t take on so,” she said, soothingly. “ See, 
here is a piece of porcelain that I have been painting for 
Baby’s birthday, with the date on it, and a wreath of mixed 
none-so-pretty and forget-me-not. Janie is going to have 
it glazed and fired for me.” 

By and by he rose ; but he would listen to none of her 
proposals that he should have something to eat or drink, 
or that he should go to bed. He would not go up-stairs 
that night, he said ; he was going out, and might be back 
late; he did not wish to wake the child. And then he wan- 
dered away into the darkness. 

It was about three in the morning when he returned ; and 
thereafter she, lying awake in the silence, could hear him 
pacing up and down; and sometimes she thought she could 
hear him say “Mother!” And if she was convinced that 
this passion of grief was sincere enough for the moment, 
still, she could not tell that the remorse accompanying it 
was likely to be a permanent or fruitful thing. On the 
contrary, she looked away to the future (in those despond- 
ent hours that herald in the dawn), and as she considered 
that the one salutary and controlling influence over Fred 
Foster’s life had now been taken away, she could only de 
spairingly conjecture what the fate of herself, and or her 
child, that was dearer to her than herself, was likely to be. 


CHAPTEK XXX. 

AN OLD FRIEND. 

It was about a couple of months after tliis that Fred 
Foster was one morning walking in toward the town of 
Scarborough, carelessly switching at the wayside weeds 
with his cane, and apparently thinking hard. Indeed, so 
preoccupied was he that he would probably have allowed 
a smart little chaise, drawn by a pair of small brown 
ponies, to have passed unnoticed, had not the solitary oc 
cupant of the vehicle pulled up, and rather timidly pro- 
nounced his name. She was a woman of about thirty, 
stylishly dressed in a driving-coat of silver-gray plush, and 


240 


SABINA ZKMBRA. 


beef-eator hat of the same material; and she would have 
been distinctly good-looking had she only let her face alone. 
But her desperate efforts to appear ten years younger than 
she really was were somewhat too obvious. Her abundant 
yellow hair looked bleached, and her lips, that were a trifle 
thin and hard in expression, owed something, it is to be 
feared, to artificial aid. And yet, notwithstanding the ag- 
gressive character of her thin features and steely -blue 
eyes, she was now regarding Fred Foster with consider- 
able doubt, as if she was uncertain as to how he would an- 
swer her appeal. 

“ Oh, how do you do?” he said, rather coldly. 

She shifted the whip, and familiarly held out her right 
hand. 

“There — let by-gones be by-gones.” 

“I have no objection,” he said, and he stepped forward 
and took her hand for a moment. ‘ ‘ Who could have ex- 
pected to meet you here? I thought you lived at Don- 
caster?” 

“One word,” she interposed. “Have you heard any- 
thing about me lately?” 

“ No; I haven’t been about much,” he said, evasively. 

“ Then you may as well call me Mrs. Fairservice again, 
if you don’t mind.” 

“ What !” he said. “ You don’t mean that? Have you 
and Bernard ” 

“ Oh, don’t talk to me about Charlie Bernard,” she again 
interposed, with a scornful little laugh. “I’ve had enough 
of Charlie Bernard, I found him out in the end. Why, if 

you only knew what a hound he is But there, we 

won’t speak about him. You never thought much of 
him?” 

“ I had no great reason to think much of him,” remarked 
Foster, who was too shrewd a man of the world to say 
anything more definite. He knew that this fair dame 
had a pretty violent temper ; and no doubt there had been 
a quarrel, which very likely might get patched up again. 

“And you?” she said, scanning him Horn head to foot 
with her cold, scrutinizing eyes. “You don’t seem over- 
flourishing. I heard you had got into queer- street?” 

“ You heard right, then,” he answered, rather gloomily. 

“And you, of all men in the world!” she said, with 
a sardonic little laugh. “I wonder how you like being 
hard up. I should be curious to see how you bear it. 
Somehow I can’t imagine j’our living up a tree. It doesn’t 
seem natural. I suppose you swear a good deal?” 

“Oh, I assure you it is quite a laughing matter,” he 
retorted, a little bit nettled. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


241 


“No, no; I didn’t mean that,” she said at once. “Come, 
tell me what you are doing in Scarborough.” 

“ I have just been out to Holkley Hall. Raby is there 
just now— you remember Captain Raby?” 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ Well, he’s trying to fix things together for me. You 
may laugh as you like, but living the life of a badger in a 
hole is rather monotonous. And it wasn’t through any 
fault of mine that I got into this mess. It was Cherry- 
band that broke me— of course you heard of the drugging 
of Cherry -band? Oh, I can tell you, I have had some rare 
experiences of human nature since then. I never had a 
high and mighty opinion of my fellow-creatures; but it 
was little I knew how mean they could be until I got 
broke.” 

“ Yes, on the turf it is every man for himself, and the 
devil catch the hindmost. And the worst of it is that the 
devil does catch the hindmost.” 

But she did not seem interested in what she was saying, 
or in what he was saying either. As he went on to detail 
his woes and wrongs, she listened in silence, looking at 
him from time to time, as if she was pondering over some 
very different matters. At length she said, abruptly : 

“ Will you dine with me to-night?” 

He hesitated. 

“ Are you at a hotel?” 

“Yes,” she said, and she named the hotel. 

“ Do you mean the table d'hote ? ” he asked, with an in- 
voluntary look downward at his attire, which was none of 
the smartest. 

She instantly understood his hesitation. 

“No, we will dine in my sitting-room. Come as you 
are, of course. At seven, that we may have a good talk 
afterward. Is it a bargain?” 

“Very well— thank you,” he said. 

“Mind, it is Mrs. Fairservice you ask for. Good-bye, 
just now.” And therewith she touched the ponies and 
drove on. 

Toward seven o’clock that evening he made himself as 
trim as was possible, and went along to the hotel, where he 
found Mrs. Fairservice, very elegantly attired, and appar- 
ently in a merry mood. Glancing at the table, he saw that 
it was laid for two. 

“ You have no one with you?” he asked. 

“Oh, dear no; I think I can take care of myself,” she 
answered, blandly. “ And they know me at this hotel.” 

She had ordered a neat little dinner for him, and was evi- 
dently well acquainted with men’s tastes. The things were 
all good of their kind, but not too numerous ; there was no 


242 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


dawdling over sweets; the wines were excellent; and await- 
ing him there lay on the mantel- piece half a dozen cigars 
— not greeny-gray, nor foxy-red, nor black with bitterness, 
nor veined with oil, but (when stripped of their silver-foil 
and tissue-paper) plump, smooth, softly brown Cabanas, 
with promise of supernal joy. 

“I can hardly help laughing,” she said, when together 
they were seated at the table, “to tlunk of Master Fred 
being up a tree. Honestly, now, did you ever deny your- 
self anything?” 

“Never, when I could get it,” he answered, frankly. 
“What is the use?” 

“ You’re married, ain’t you?” . 

“Yes.” 

“ Where’s your wife?” 

“ In Surrey— Witstead — near Epsom.” 

“ How does she get on?” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“Who supports her? You can’t, I know. ” 

“Oh, she has money from her father, and from my fa- 
ther, too. That is a pretty joke. To spite me, I suppose, 
the old gentleman prefers to pay over my allowance to her. 
But it’s the same thing in the end.” 

“ Yes, I should imagine so,” she said, dryly. “ What do 
you think of that Chablis?” 

“ It is very good indeed.” 

“ They told me it was.” 

“But why don’t you take anj^?” he asked. 

“ Well,” she answered, “ I have had some vexations to 
get through lately, and I find that wine keeps the brain too 
much alive to these things— especially if you are lying 
awake at night. I don’t worry so much when I keep to 
water.” 

“Don’t you drink wine at all, then?” 

“ Sometimes I have a little champagne. Here, waiter, 
open that bottle. ” 

“ Yes, my lad> .” 

“ What worries have you had?” Fred Foster asked, with 
that masculine disregard of the presence of servants which 
women never acquire. 

“ I will tell you presently,” said Mrs. Fairservice, with a 
discreet wink. 

But even when the waiter had gone from the room, she 
seemed to wish to keep away from that topic. Indeed 
they had a great many things and persons to talk over, 
and among them -a topic to which Mrs. Fairservice per- 
tinaciously, and Fred Foster most unwillingly, returned— 
was his wife. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, ‘ 243 

“ What kind of a woman is she?” his companion asked, 
frankly. 

“Oh, she’s a good enough sort,” he answered, with some 
reluctance. “ Rather lofty in her notions sometimes, for 
the humble likes of me. Brought up among philanthropic 
fads, and that kind of thing. Why, I believe, if she had 
a sixpence to spare, she would sooner send it to the soup- 
kitchens at Westminster than spend it on her own child.” 

“What!” Mrs. Fairservice cried, with a burst of rather 
thin-tinkling laughter. “ You don’t mean to say you are 
a papa?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“ Well, well, well. Wonders will never cease. To think 
of Master Fred being a father. You don’t look it, some- 
how. But about your wife — I heard she was the daughter 
of a swell.” 

“ I don’t know what you call a swell,” he said, rather 
sulkily. “ She is the daughter of Sir Anthony Zernbra, 
who is the meanest cur in these three, kingdoms. How- 
ever, I’m going to have all that put to rights as soon as I 
can go south. I’m not going to stand it any longer. 
There’s my father, who is a poor man, he gives us more 
than Zernbra does. But that will soon be put straight. 
Raby is patching up my affairs. And when I get south, 
I’m going to have a little settlement with Sir Anthony 
Zernbra. I’m not going to support his daughter.” 

Mrs. Fairservice deliberately put down her knife and 
fork. 

“ You are not going to support his daughter,” she slowly 
repeated. “ Well, you are a most delightfid wag!” 

But the quick glance of anger that he darted at her 
showed that she had gone too far — or else that he had 
drank too much champagne; so she instantly changed lier 
manner, and began to prophesy smooth things, and tO say 
that Sir Anthony Zernbra, if approached in the proper way, 
would of course come to the aid of his son-in-law. 

Dinner over, coffee was brought in; and she herself 
fetched him a cigar, which he lit, drawing his chair a lit- 
tle bit back from the table. She went and stood by the 
fireplace, her back to the empty grate. When the waiter 
had removed the things, and they were once more left 
alone, she said : 

“ Now I am going to tell you something. Perhaps you 
won’t be surprised. You say you have had some experi 
eiice lately of human nature— meanness, and that. Well, 
so have I. What would you say, now, if I told you that 
it was Charlie Bernard who threw me over?” 

There was a curious smile on her lips, somewhat belied 
by the look in her eyes. 


244 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“I should say you had had a quarrel,” said Foster, pru- 
dently, “ which you will soon make up a^ain.” 

“There was no quarrel,” she said, with an increasing 
harshness in her voice. “ He deliberately threw me over 
—left me— for some bar-maid or other at Chester— going to 
marry her, I hear ! And I made that man ! What was he 
five years ago? You know. Scarce enough to buy himself 
a toothpick. Ar^d there at the Ackworth sale last week he 
gave twelve hundred guineas for Trigonella and eight hun- 
dred for Master of Roy. Two thousand guineas at one sale 
—how did he come by that, do you think?” 

“He has had the devil’s own luck,” Foster said, pen- 
sively. “ Everything he has touched has turned to gold.” 

“And who put him in the way of making a single far- 
thing?” she demanded. “Luck? What is your luck if 
you’ve nothing to back it with? You know well enough 
what I did for that man. Well? Don’t you think I take 
it very quietly? You used to gird at me because of my 
temper. Am I in a temper?” 

He looked at her. 

“ I don’t know,” he said. “ But if you got a chance of 
doing Charlie Bernard a mischief, I shouldn’t like to be in 
his shoes!” 

“ Vitriol- throwing?” she said, with a harsh laugh. “ Oh, 
no. I won’t spoil his beauty— I’ll leave that to the bar- 
maid, and welcome.” 

And then, with a surprising suddenness, she stepped for- 
ward to the table, and put her clinched fist on it ; and her 
eyes were sparkling with rage, and her face was thin and 
hard and white. 

“ No,” she said, with a fury that was all the more obvi- 
ous from her efforts to conceal it, “I won’t spoil his beauty, 
but I’ll ruin him. I tell you I won’t rest in my grave until 
I have ruined that man. I made him; arid I’ll break 
him!” 

“ You won’t find it easy to get the better of Charlie Ber- 
nard, ’ ’ Foster observed : 

‘ ‘ Bah ! That’s all you know, ” she said, contemptuously. 
“ That’s all you know. But -I understand Charlie Bernard 
down to his boots; and I tell you he’s a fool. He thinks he 
can't go wrong. The luck has been with him so long that 
his head’s turned. And that’s where I’ll have my gentle- 
man, see if I don’t!” 

She resumed her station by the fireplace. That sharp 
ebullition of rage over, she strove to appear perfectly calm. 
But her mouth was cruel. 

“ And how do you propose to get at him?” Foster asked. 

“That’s my affair,” she said, shortly. “But I don’t 
mind telling you that I mean it. I shouldn’t mind telling 


SABLXA ZEMBRA. 


245 


all the world ; for I dare say Charlie Bernard himself has a 
shrewd notion that I will do my little best. And 1 haven’t 
been in all his stable secrets for over four years for noth 
ing.” 

And then she said, looking hard at him: 

“Of course I should want somebody to stand in with me. 
1 couldn’t appear myself. Charlie Bernard is conceited; 
but he is wary enough, and he’ll be watching me for many 
a day to come. No; I must have a trustworthy agent to 
do the trick for me; and if we pulled it off, it would be well 
worth his while.” 

That she was referring to himself was clear enough. 

“ But I don’t quite understand what you are driving at,” 
he said. “Do you mean fair means or foul?” 

“ I didn’t know there was any difference on the turf, ” she 
said, saucily. 

“Well, I have no reason to be nasty particklar,” he 
said, with a laugh. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t hit 
back with the same kind of stick that hits you. If nob- 
bling is to be the game, it shouldn’t be all on one side. 
But it’s a very dangerous game, and not often tried nowa- 
days; at least, it doesn’t succeed very often. They man- 
aged it pretty well with Cherry-band, though.” 

“Well. Avhat do you say?” she asked, abruptly. 

“Oh. I’m not in it,. You must lookout for somebody 
else. I'm broke. Of course you want somebody who can 
weigh in with coin.” 

She paused for a second or two. 

“I don’t know about that. Of course I should like to 
have some one go in equal risks with me. if 1 was quite 
sure that at the last minute he wouldn’t play his own 
game, and land me. Besides, I don’t know any one I 
could trust. I could trust you because it would be worth 
your while.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Oh, we’d better speak plain. I mean business this 
time.” There was a flash of fire in her eyes. “ I tell you 
if I had to sell every stick and stone that I possess— if I 
had to sell the clothes off my back— I would do it to bring 
that man to the gutter. And it’s there I’ll have him, you 
mark my words. And I’m not in a hurry— no, no— I can 
wait and watch my chance. I’m not going to spoil it by 
rushing ii. I’m not going to show my hand until I’ve got 
the odd trick safe and sure. But then — then I’ll let him 
know. What will he take to, do you think? I should like 
to see him a billiard-marker at Gatti’s.” 

She rang the bell. 

“ I beg your pardon — I forgot to ask for liqueurs.” 

“I would rather have a brandy-and-soda,’’ he said. 


246 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“Very well,” she said, and that was ordered. 

Then she went over and sat down by the table. In her 
eagerness she seemed to take it for granted that Foster 
was willing to become her ally. 

“Do you know Joe Cantly?” she said, when the waiter 
had brought in the brandy-and-soda, and gone away again. 

“ Only to speak to.” 

“ If we could only make sure of Joe Cantly, the whole 
thing would be as simple as possible. Bernard and he are 
hand- in-glove in everything. But he would be a difficult 
customer to get at. He prides himself on his professional 
honor!” 

“What!” Foster exclaimed. “Why, they declare he 
roped Redhampton at Liverpool.” 

“It’s a lie,” she said, bluntly. “I was there. He no 
more pulled that horse than I did. All the stable Avere 
backing him, Cantly as Avell. No, I believe Joe Cantly has 
so far ridden as fair and square as any jock that ever 
breathed.” 

“Every man has his price,” Foster said, as he went to 
the mantel-piece for another cigar. 

“Yes, but I imagine Joe Cantly ’s price is rather beyond 
me. There might be other means,” she added, musingly. 

Foster looked up, but neither spoke nor smiled. What 
he said to himself, however, was: “ Dpes this woman really 
think she has youth and beauty enough to inflame the 
heart of that little shred of a jock?” 

“Gratitude doesn’t count, I suppose,” she continued. 
“ And yet he ought to be grateful to me. Why, he Avas 
only a stable lad when I Avent fii'st to Doncaster. It was I 
who got the general to give him his first mount, because I 
liked the look of the boy. I Avish I could have an hour’s 
talk with him, just to see Avhether his devotion to my dear 
friend Charlie Bernard is of an unusual kind.” 

And then she said. 

“ Well, are you going to stand in Avith me?” 

“ I should like to knoAv more distinctly what you’re aim- 
ing at,” he said. 

“ Do you expect I can put it all down on paper at a mo- 
ment’s notice?” she retorted. “Well, yes, I could. I’m 
aiming at the ruin of Mr. Charles Bernard ; that’s about 
it; and it’s got to be done, if a Avoman can doit. You 
mean the av ay of doing it? AVell, that AA^ants time. But 
I knoAv this, that it is bad luck that makes most men reck- 
less, but it is good luck that makes Bernard reckless. He’ll 
back his fancy through thick and thin; no hedging for 
him; no, no; my gentleman knows a horse when he sees 
one. The sporting papers have turned his head, that’s the 
fact. He thinks he is bound to be right. And he is con- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


247 


ccited ; and knows that big figures make the stable-boys 
gape. There’s but the one end for a man like that — when 
it is properly prepared for him. Now, do you understand V ’ 

“ It has been done,” he said, absently. 

” When do you go up to town?” 

This startled him out of his reverie. 

“I don’t know quite. I went out to see Raby this morn- 
ing. He has been trying to square things a little for me— 
and there’s a young fellow called Russell who has turned 
out a bit of a trump ” 

“lam going back to Doncaster to-morrow,” she said. 
“ And in about three weeks’ time I expect to be in London. 
If you are there then, call on me at the Northern Counties 
Hotel, Jermyn Street. You won’t forget the address?” 

He penciled it down in his memorand^um-book. 

“There are some writs out against me, that’s the fact, ” 
he said. “And people are so unreasonable. Of course 
you can’t give them money if you haven’t got it; all the 
summonses and county courts and writs in the world 
won’t create money where it doesn’t happen to be.” 

“Ah, well, of course,” said Mrs. Fairservice, who Avas 
a business-like Avoman. “if you are in so bad a hole as 
that, if you can’t get about, it’s hardly worth Avhile talk- 
ing about that little scheme. But you say things may 
mend. Well, come and see me in Jermyn Street if they 
do. I may liaA^e something to tell you by that time — 
something to your advantage, as the advertisements say. 
You look as if you Avanted it, don’t you. Master Fred?” 

Presently he rose to go; and she insisted on his putting 
the remaining cigars in his pocket. On the top of the 
staircase, as slie bade him good-bye, she said : 

“ Jermyn Street, then. Au revoirP' 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A THREAT. 

One morning Sabina was seated alone and at Avork— 
painting som.e fiowers on a terra-cotta vase. She earned a 
little that way now, thanks to Janie’s intercession Avith the 
manager of a Avell-knoAvn firm in Oxford Street. It Avas 
but a small addition to her income, yet it Avas something; 
and she considered it as peculiarly her own, and made no 
scruple about devoting it entirely to the comfort and Avel- 
fare and amusement of her boy. As for her other money, 
every farthing that she could save by the exercise of the 
most rigid and constant economy, was claimed by Fos- 
ter, whose demands were becoming more and more per- 
emptory and extortionate. Not only that, but he had 
begun once more to insist on her going to her father to 


248 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


obtain some more suitable provision ; and plainly he warned 
her that, as soon as he was come south again, he would see 
that the present condition of affairs should be brought to 
an end. 

Sabina tore up those letters with a sigh. She knew that 
appealing to her father would be of no avail. And even if 
their income were to be doubled or trebled, what hope was 
there that Foster would change his mode of life? Indeed 
she tried hard not to think of these things, and kept her- 
self busily occupied in tending the child, and looking after 
the house, and filling up every spare moment with this 
terra-cotta painting. But there was a shadow ever pres- 
ent on her brow, and her manner was grave ; and she was 
a good deal paler than the Sabina of old. It was only when 
her boy stretched out his arms toward her that a soft 
luster of happiness shone in the mild, beautiful eyes. 

She was seated at the table in her small parlor when 
she heard a slight tapping at the door. 

“ Come in!” 

“A gentleman to see you, ma’am,” said the little maid- 
servant, and therewith Captain Baby stepped into the 
room. 

She had been so much engaged with her work that she 
had not heard him open the front gate ; and now she was 
so surprised by his unexpected appearance— having some 
swift momentary recollection of the way she had received 
him on a former visit — that when he said, “ I have brought 
you some news of your husband, Mrs. Foster,” she in- 
voluntarily asked him to be seated. He took a chair, put 
his hat on the floor beside him, and began to pull off his 
gloves. 

“Yes — I — I happened to be in the neighborhood,” he 
l)egan, and he had evidently forgiven her curtness on that 
former occasion, for he strove to be most amiable in man- 
ner, ‘ ‘ and I saw Fred last week — the week before it was, 
nearly— and I thought I might as well drop in and let you 
know how he was getting along. Not very well at this 
moment, I am afraid, though there is something of a pros- 
pect for him ; indeed. I have a little commission on that 
subject from our mutual friend, Mr. Russell, whom you 
may remember, perhaps.” 

She paused for a second, she did not answer. 

” No, as I say, I don’t think Fred Foster could be in a 
worse plight than he is just now.-- You see, he always was 
such a headstrong fellow. When things went wrong with 
him, nothing would do but that he must force them right; 
now you can’t force things right if luck is against you.” 

“Have you any particular news of my husband?” she 
interposed, somewhat coldly. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


249 


“Nothing very satisfactory, nothing that you would 
much care to hear, perhaps,” he answered, as he quietly 
twisted his mustache, and regarded her. Then he added, 
with an ironical smile, “ Of course there are compensating 
circumstances in every lot, and Foster has at least hit upon 
one old acquaintance of his — an old flame of his, if I mis- 
take not — a Mrs. Fairservice, who is pretty well off. But 
she is a very shrewd woman, is Polly Fairservice, and 
sharp; I don’t think she would be inclined to help him, 
unless she saw it to be to her own advantage. ’ ’ 

Sabina’s pale face flushed slightly. 

“Is that what you came to tell me?” Captain Raby, she 
asked. 

“Oh, dear, no,” he answered, blandly, “I only came to 
consult you as a friend. I wish I could make you believe 
that. But the last time I called on you you seemed to 
think it a very unwarrantable intrusion. Why? I offer 
you my services— in any way you choose to command 
them.” 

“ I have no need of them,” she said, stiffly. 

“ But you might have need of them.” 

“Will you tell me briefly why you are here?” 

“Yes, I will. I have come in your own interests. I 
have come to consult your wishes. Believe it or not, I am 
come as your friend — why, how otherwise should I come? 
Why should I bother myself about Fred Foster’s affairs ex- 
cept for your sake? I think you might recognize that a 
little. Well, now, I want to know what you want done. 
Practically, Foster has deserted you ” 

“I beg your pardon, he has done nothing of the sort; 
and I will not stay to hear my husband’s actions discussed 
in any way whatsoever,” Sabina said; and she pushed 
away her painting materials, as if, on the least provocation, 
she meant to leave the room. 

“Very well; but the fact remains,” he said, quietly. 
“ Now this is a very miserable life you are leading— alone, 
away from your friends, with no amusement, with no one 
to protect you ” 

“ That, at least, is true,” she said. 

He continued without heeding the interruption: “And 
as far as I can guess, supporting a worthless fellow who 
never could earn his own living, and who never will ” 

“ Captain Raby, you come here as a friend ” 

“ Of yours, ” he interposed. “One moment. I ask you 
to listen to what I have to say. It rests with me to decide 
whether your husband is to come back here or not.” 

She stared at him m astonishment. 

“Yes, you are surprised, naturally; but such is the 
case,” he continued. “ Foster’s affairs are in such a pre- 


250 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


cions muddle that he dare not show himself in any of his 
old haunts. Very well. There is only one man in the 
country who is fool enough to think of helping liim out of 
the hole— and that is Johnny Russell; and Russell will act 
on my advice. Suppose I say yes; and get some money 
from Jack Russell, and square certaiip people, and pacify 
others, so that Foster may return to London, and come 
here also, what are you to expect? Do you think he will 
ever be other than he is? Would you like to have him 
back? Would it be to your gain, do you think? You see 
now that it is as a friend I have come to you— to consult 
your interests, and yours alone.” 

He spoke rapidly and plausibly, and she was a little be- 
wildered. 

“ But— but— in any case he must be coming back here,” 
she stammered. 

He smiled. 

“ Without Jack Russell’s help, I think it will be a very 
long time, indeed, before Master Fred will show his face 
on any race-course in England.” 

” But here— to his own house!” she said. 

‘ ‘ The writters would be after him like a pack of wolves. 
No; you may rest assured, dear Mrs. Foster, that we can 
keep your husband from worrying you, if you wish it. If 
you will only look at your position hi a sensible way ; look 
at it as any woman of the world would look at it; con- 
sider what your life is likely to be if Foster comes back 
penniless and desperate; then, I think, you will take the 
obviously prudent decision of leaving him where he is. 
Why the whole situation is absurd. A beautiful woman 
like you— and living in a place like this ; the two things 
are not compatible.” 

Sabina rose, her lip^ very pale, and she grasped the back 
of the choir with her hand. 

“I don’t know — I don’t know whether you mean to in- 
sult me. Captain Raby ” 

“I insult you! Is it an insult to call a woman beauti- 
ful? Then your glass must insult you every minute in the 
day!” 

” But I must ask you to go. I do not wish to have my 
husband’s affairs, or mine, interfered with by any third 
person— least of all bj^ you.” 

“Oh, but really, now ” 

“Surely, surely,” she said, with indignation in her 
voice, “ you will go when I ask you. You profess to be a 
gentleman !’ ’ 

“ Of course I obey you,” he said, as he slowly took up 
his hat and went to the door. “ But please remember it is 
for you to decide. And you may change your mind.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


251 


When he had gone, she stood for a second irresolute — for 
there was still pride and indignation in the firm-set lines 
of her mouth; but the next moment her lips began to 
quiver a little, and presently she sank down into her chair 
again, and bent forward her head between her two arms 
outstretched on the table, and was crying and sobbing like 
a child. For she had been much alone of late, and some- 
how she had fallen away from the high courage of the 
Sabina of old; now and again a kind of despair would seize 
her, and she could have wished to have done with this 
world and its ways altogether— if only her child were 
asleep by her side. 

But if Captain Raby imagined that, by simply doing 
nothing, he could keep Fred Foster in banishment in the 
north, he was mistaken. Quitfe unexpectedly one evening 
Foster made his appearance at Wayside Cottage. 

“Why do you stare?” he said, sulkily, to Sabina. “I 
am not a ghost. I want something to drink.” 

He looked travel-stained and tired, and his boots were 
dusty. 

“ I am afraid there is nothing in the house,” she said. 

“ Nothing?” 

“We never use anything of the kind; the girl has beer- 
money instead of beer, so we have no need for it. ” 

“ Well, then, send to the Checkers— it will be open yet. 
Whisky, gin, any poison they have. Why don’t you 
keep decent spirits in the house? Saving, I suppose — 
cheese-paring — as if that was any good. Well, there’s got 
to be an end of that now. The farthing sj^stem has got to 
be abolished. ” 

She went to give instructions to the maid-servant. 
When she came back he said. 

“ I suppose you haven’t been to your father?” 

“No, Fred, I ” 

“ I thought not. Well, I have come here to see that you 
do go, and that you make your going worth while. There’s 
to be no nonsense this time, I can tell you; it isn’t a time 
for nonsense. ’ ’ 

“ I am quite sure, Fred,” she pleaded, “ that it won’t be 
of the slightest use.” 

“ You’ve got to make it be of use,” he replied. “ I must 
have two hundred pounds within the next three weeks, 
and that only as a beginning.” 

“You know it is impossible!” she exclaimed. 

“ I know nothing of the kind. But I do know that it 
depends on you, if only you will put your fine feelings in 
your pocket.” 

“ What can I do, Fred? What am I to say?” she asked, 
in a kind of bewilderment. 


252 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“The first thing you can do,” he said, coolly and me- 
thodically, “ is to sit down and write a letter to my father, 
asking him for fifty pounds. If you pitch the appeal 
strong enough, you will get it easily. Very well. I can 
put my hands on the remaining hundred and fifty as soon 
as I can show a. reasonable prospect of paying it back by 
installments; and it is for your father to provide that by 
doubling your allowance. That is clear enough, isn’t it?” 

“And even if you were to get the money, Fred ” 

“ Well?’* he said, for she had hesitated. 

“Would things be any better?” 

“I don’t know what you mean?” he said, roughly. 
“Sentiment, I suppose. Well, it isn’t a time for senti- 
ment with me, I can tell you. And when there is a chance 
of my pulling through, I’m not going to lose it without a 
fight. It’s you that have got to provide the means. And 
that money I’m going to have.” 

“But why should you threaten, Fred?” she remon- 
strated, for his attitude toward her was quite menacing. 
“ If I can get the money for you you know I will. Don’t 
I give you every farthing I can?” 

Oh, these paltry pittances are no good. I tell you this 
is a serious matter. It’s my last chance. And if I miss 
it, then I’m off to America or Australia, and that’s the last 
you’ll see of me.” 

Here the girl came back from the Checkers, and Foster, 
having mixed himself some drink, lit his pipe. 

“But I hope to get even with Kaby before that,” he 
said, moodily. 

“ What has he been doing,” she asked. 

“Oh, only like the rest! It’s wonderful how you find 
out what human nature is when you’re down on your luck. 
Quite useful it is ; gives you such an insight. Here was 
Kaby professing to be great friends wuth me, offering to go 
up to London to square up matters for me, pretending he 
had begged Johnny Russell to give me a hand. Why, it 
was by the merest accident I met Russell. Well, I will 
say, he is a good fellow, if he wasn’t such a fool. And 
then he tells me that Kaby had refused to take the trouble, 
and was so kind as to say that the country air was better 
for me than coming to town. But I’ll be even with him 
yet.” 

“I suppose you kno’w Captain Kaby came down here?” 
she asked. 

He looked up angrily and suspiciously . 

“ What was he down hero for?” 

“ He professed to be anxious to serve you.” 

“ By coming down iiere? Then I will tell you, the less 
you have to say to Kaby the better.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


253 


“I do not wish to have anything to say to him,” she 
answered, calmly ; ” and I do not think he is likely to come 
here again.” 

The little maid-servant now brought in supper, but he 
could not be persuaded to have any. Perhaps the simple 
repast of cold beef, bread, lettuce, and water did not look 
very tempting. Sabina sat down to the table b}^ herself. 

“You’ve never once asked about the boy, Fred,” she 
said, reproachfully. i 

“ Oh, I suppose he’s all right,” he said, with some impa- 
tience. “ If he hadn’t been I should have heard soon 
enough, I dare say. You know, when I see you sitting 
down to a supper like that, it looks ridiculous, and it is ri- 
diculous. It is perfectly absurd. No one would believe it. 
Of course, my father isn’t as rich as your father, still, be- 
tween them, we should be living in a perfectly different 
way. Water! ‘Drops of crystal water!’ Not a glass of 
sherry in the house. Why, what do you suppose your 
people are doing at home just now? Your father at the 
head of a big dinner table, all the men smoking and pass- 
ing the wine, the women gone up to the drawing-room, 
and thinking it about time to get ready to go down to the 
reception at the Foreign Office. That’s living. And you 
are of the same family. Cold beef and lettuce! You 
know it’s perfectly absurd!” 

“But we had plenty to live upon, Fred, when we mar- 
ried,” she ventured to remonstrate. “Surely, in a mod- 
erate way, we had abundance of everything we could 
want.” 

“Yes, because I had a good turn of luck, then,” he re- 
torted. “ It was all very well then, and you were satis- 
fied. But now, when the luck’s against me, now you com- 
plain.” 

She glanced at him for a moment. 

“I don’t think,” she said, slowly— “I don’t think you 
ought to say that of me, Fred.” 

“Oh, there are different ways of complaining; it isn’t 
all done by talking. However, that’s neither here nor 
there. That’s not what I’m come about here to-night. 
I’m going to have one more try for it before I skip across 
the seas, and you’ve got to help me.” 

When she had finished supper, and the little girl had 
come in to clear the table, he said to her : 

“Now, the best thing you can do is to sit down and 
write that letter to my father ; then I will look at it anti 
see if it will do.” 

She hesitated for a second or two. 

“ Fred, don’t think me unwilling to do anything I can 


254 


SABINA ZEMBEA. 


for you. But— but I would rather go to my own father 
than write to yours for money ” 

“You’ve got to do both, and that’s the fact,” he said, 
bluntly. “ This is not a time for a half-measure.” 

She went rather sadly to her desk. 

“I must see what he says in his last letter,” she said. 
“ He is more anxious than ever that I should go and live 
with him at Missenden.” 

“Yes, I dare say,” Foster remarked. “Very likely. 
But we’re not going into the catacombs just yet.” 

She sat down at the little table. 

“ What shall I say?” 

“Don’t you know yourself? Better not tell him I am 
here, anyway. Can’t you ask for it on account of the boy? 
—that would fetch him. Or you can blame me for it — 
that will fetch him too; say 1 left somn bills unpaid— that 
is true enough; and the people are worrying for their 
money, which is also as true as the Gospel. Anyhow, pitch 
it strong.” 

It is impossible to describe the humiliation with which 
Sabina set about writing this letter; but she wrote it, 
nevertheless; and although, on looking it over, he grum- 
bled that the appeal was not made sufficiently plaintive, 
he at length forbore to urge her further, and she was al- 
lowed to put the letter in an envelope, to be posted as soon 
as possible. 

But the next morning his manner toward her was of a 
much more peremptory cast; for he had now to give her 
instructions about'the mission to her own father; and that 
was of a far more serious nature than the mere borrowing 
of a temporary fifty pounds. 

“ You understand me,” he said, as he was preparing to 
leave, “that I make you distinctly responsible for what- 
ever may happen. It’s absurd to imagine that a daughter 
(^an’t get her father to be a little bit generous to her, if she 
goes about it the right way. Of course, if you stand on 
your dignity, so will he. If you give yourself airs, he will 
be glad of it; it will be an excuse for his saying no, and he 
will save the money. And mind you leave me out of it. 
Tell him anything you like about me— tell him I’m in a 
cancer hospital, or in America, or in Van Diemen’s Land, 
anywhere where his money is not likely to be of service to 
me. It’s for you and tlie boy. And considering the 
circumstances, he might be willing to plank down a good 
round sum to begin with. Everything will depend on how 
you do it ” 

“Fred, I will do my best,” she pleaded, “but don’t be 
disappointed if he refuses. Is there no other way you can 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


255 


save yourself? It seems so terrible to have everything 
depending on the one chance.” 

“There is no other way, I tell you,” he said, angrily. 
“And of course if you go shrinking and cowering, and 
assured of failure, you will fail. Very well; I tell you 
I will hold you responsible for what happens. But what- 
ever does happen you maybe quite certain of one thing: if 
I am forced to leave the country, if I have to spend the 
rest of my days in Australia, I mean to take the boy with 
me when I go. So you just remember that.” 

It was little he knew of the effect that these last words 
had upon Sabina, for he uttered them at the open door, and 
without turning to look round, he walked down to the lit- 
tle gate, and was gone. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

A CRY OF DESPAIR. 

She was absolutely stunned and bewildered by this 
threat; terror kept her motionless; she stood there like a 
statue, aghast and white; and then, urged by a sudden im- 
pulse, she went swiftly up the stair, broke into the room, 
snatched the boy from the nurse’s knee, and wound her 
arms round him, and pulled him close to her bosom. 

“My darling! m3’ darling!” she cried. 

No tears came to her aid— she was too disma3’ed for that; 
she could only hold him tight to her; and as she walked up 
and down the room, in a veiy agony of alarm and wild 
conjecture, she uttered from time to time breathless little 
moans, and talked to herself in broken ejaculations. 

“ He cannot— he cannot take m3" boy from me— the one 
thing I have on earth — the one thing — and that to be taken, 
too! God help me! Surel3^ God will help me, if man will 
not. My lamb ! If only we were lying dead together, that 
would be the best thing for us both. ’ ’ 

“What is it, ma’am? what is the matter?” the little 
maid-servant said, in great concern. 

But Sabina paid no heed. She v/as as one quite dis- 
tracted. She clasped the boy to her, and moaned over 
him as though her heart were breaking, and held his cheek 
to hers. ‘ ‘ My pretty one !— my prett3’ one !” she said. For 
in this first bewilderment of fear it never occurred to her 
to doubt the power of the father to take the child away from 
her ; and well she knew Fred Foster’s passionate and reck- 
less malice when he was thwarted. And then those long 
3"ears that rose as a ghastly vision before her e3^es — herself 
a lone woman, broken-hearted and hopeless— her boy 
growing up without her care in some distant part of the 
world. And if these two were ever to meet, they would 




256 


SABINA ZE3IBRA, 


be strangers. They would not know each other. They 
might pass each other in the street without recognition. 

Then of a sudden there flashed through her burning brain 
the question whether the law would not protect her 
against this foreshadowed outrage. But here all was 
agonizing doubt. Surely the mother was the natural guar- 
dian of her child ; surely no one could take him away from 
her. And yet she had a haunting memory of having heard 
—and of having sympathized with— denunciations of the 
iniquity of the laws of England on this very matter. 
What was it they had said? She could not tell. She Avas 
too agitated and alarmed to think clearly ; her endeavors 
to convince herself of her safety, and her shuddering fears 
that, after all, he might have the power to take her boy 
away from her, Avere only prod uctiv^e of mental torture; 
and at last, in her abject dread and despair and helpless- 
ness, came the resolve to go instantly to London, to seek 
aid and counsel from her nearest friend. If Janie did not 
knoAv, Janie Avould get to knoAv, and at once. Life with 
this terror hanging over her Avas not possible. 

She gave back the child in charge of the frightened little 
maid, hurriedly put on her things, and Avent out, Avalking 
quickly in the direction of the vicarage. The vicar’s fam- 
ily were the only people Avhose acquaintance she had made 
in the neighborhood, and she had made it in this Avay. It 
appeared that the households of better standing in that 
small part of the Avorld had chosen, for some reason or an- 
other, to hold aloof from Mrs. Deane, a proceeding Avhich 
Avas of very little moment to that lady, Avho spent most of 
her evenings in London theaters and music-halls. It Avas 
probably owing to this circumstance that, Avhen Sabina 
came to Wayside Cottage, the Aucar’s AAufe did not call 
upon her; and then again, the young mother was AAdiolly 
engrossed Avith her baby, and rarely appeared out-of-doors, 
preferring the solitude and freedom of the garden behind 
the cottage. But one day it happened that Sabina had 
taken the boy out in his pei’ambulator for an excursion 
along the public higliAvay, Avhen Mrs. Lulworth, the 
clergyman’s Avife — a brisk and sensible little Avoman, ex- 
tremely proud of her husband, and of her daughters, and 
of her poultry, and of her connection AAuth the Established 
Church of her native land— chanced to come along, and so 
met them. Noav Mrs. Lulw^orth kneAv Sabina only as the 
tenant of Wayside Cottage, and had neA^er seen her at 
close quarters, and she had half a mind to pass by Avithout 
speaking. 

But just as she came quite near, Sabina looked up, and 
the elder Avoman caught the expression of the younger 
Avoman’s face and of her gentle eyes. That Avas enough. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


257 


She stopped. “ What a beautiful morning for Baby to be 
out!” ” Yes, indeed it is.” ” The dear little fellow 1 How 
old is he?” That was the beginning. The next day Mrs. 
Lidwortii and her troop of daughters called and left their 
cards. Then one of the younger girls, happening to see 
Sabina in the small front garden, went up and spoke to 
her, told her her name, was invited into the house, and re- 
turned home with an account which might almost have 
equaled one of Janie’s rhapsodies. The acquaintanceship 
thus begun was soon assured; and if these good people 
rather wondered that they heard so little of Mr. Foster — 
for Sabina hardly ever mentioned his name— they had on 
the other hand discovered that their beautiful-eyed- and 
gentle-mannered neighbor was a daughter of Sir Anthony 
Zembra, and that appeared to give them much satisfac- 
tion. 

But it was not to seek counsel of this good little dame 
that Sabina was now hurrying along to the vicarage ; for 
she had no mind to tell the story of her life to people who 
were almost strangers. When she arrived at the house, 
she rang the bell, and a servant appeared. 

“Is Mrs. Lul worth at home?” 

“ No, ma’am, she has gone over to Banstead.” 

“ Or any of the young ladies?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am; all of them. Won’t you step in, 
ma’am?” 

She followed the maid into the drawing-room, and there, 
indeed, through the open French windows, she at once saw 
the whole of the five daughters— four of them playing 
tennis on the lawn, the fifth seated on a garden chair, 
reading a book, all of them in their light-colored summer 
dresses, and forming as pretty a sight as one could wish to 
see. 

It was to the young lady in the garden chair that the 
servant addressed herself; and the next moment the book 
was thrown aside and the reader was tripping across the 
lawn and up the steps with the fleet- footedness of a young 
roe. But the instant she entered the drawing-room the 
brightness of her fresh young English face gave Avay to a 
look of alarm. 

“ Dear Mrs. Foster, no one is ill?” she exclaimed. 

“Oh, no,” Sabina answered (she did not know how evi- 
dent was the anxious distress written in her eyes), “I am 
— am rather hurried, that is all. I have to go up to Lon- 
don suddenly, and you see I don’t like to leave Baby in 
charge of the little girl all by herself there. I was won- 
dering whether your mamma would allow one of the maids 
to go along and keep her company till the afternoon when 
I shall be back. I am frightened to think of anything 


BABINA 2E3rBRA. 


m 

happening while I am away— Ann is a good little thing, 
but nervous ” 

“ Oh, but that’s all right,” said the young lady, blithely. 
” I’ll go along and take charge of the boy myself ” 

” Oh, please, no; I couldn’t think of giving you so much 
trouble,” Sabina protested — but feebly; for she knew 
where the most tender care would be forthcoming. 

“Oh, but yes, yes, yes. Indeed I insist. You don’t 
know what friends we are. He is my king-favorite among 
all the children we know. Did you hear that he called me 
Cissy the other day when we were all at the gate?” 

“He talks a great deal now,” Sabina said— for the mo 
ment pleased amid all her trouble. 

“But that’s not it,” the young lady iiiterrupted. “I 
am the only one of us girls whose name he remembers ; and 
you may imagine that I am very proud of it; they tell me I 
needn’t swagger so; but he’s my particular friend anyway ; 
and just you trust him to me for the day, dear Mrs. Foster; 
we shall have the most delightful fun.” 

“It is really so very, very kind of you,” the grateful 
mother said. “And when would it be convenient for you 
to go along?” 

For answer Miss Cissy darted out of the drawing-room, 
whipped up her hat that was lying on the lawn, and put it 
on her head, and was back in an instant. 

“ Now, if you are going to the station. I’ll walk as far 
as the cottage with you. Oh, if I had only known, I could 
have made him a hundred playthings. But we’ll find out 
plenty, I am pretty sure.” 

Even this brief bit of companionship was a comfort to 
her; but when she was again alone, in the rail way -carriage 
going to London, the darkest forebodings returned. Nor 
could she get any enlightenment from thinking over those 
cases in her own experience where she had been partly in- 
strumental in having children withdrawn from the custody 
of this or that parent — drunkenness being the invariable 
cause ; for in no one instance had the law been appealed to ; 
among these poor people the usual course is to follow the 
recommendation of the police magistrate. And then again, 
supposing Foster to have the power of taking away her 
child, it was idle to think of appealing to her father to save 
her from this cruel wrong. How could she explain why 
this threat hung over her? Her only chance — and it was 
feeble enough, she knew— of getting any money from her 
father, was to avoid all mention of Foster. He was sup- 
posed to be away somewhere— anywhere. It was for her- 
self and her boy she was begging. Such were Fred Foster’s 
last injunctions. 

Arrived at Victoria Station, she took the underground 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


269 


railway to Notting Hill, and thence walked to Walter 
Lindsay’s house, whicli Janieand her husbandstill occupied. 
She was shown into the drawing-room. In a minute or two 
Janie made her appearance — in such a Hurry of delight and 
welcome that she did not notice the expression on her 
friend’s face. But after that close embrace, she retired a 
step to get a better look at her, and then she was startled. 

“ Sabie — what is the matter?” she exclaimed. 

For a moment Sabina did not speak; she was afraid of 
breaking down; her lips were tremulous. And then she 
caught Janie’s hand as if for support. 

“Janie— Janie — he threatens to — to take my boy away 
from me!” It was a piteous cry for help, so stricken down 
was she by her terror. 

“ No— it is not possible!” Janie said, with frightened 
eyes. 

“My boy— my darling — that was just all the world to 
me ! My — very — life !” 

But here she ^ave way altogether, and sank on to the 
couch behind her, and hid her head in the cushion, and 
sobbed and sobbed. 

“ My boy— my darling!” she kept moaning at intervals 
between her sobs. And then, in the verj'- wildness of her 
grief, a confession was wrung from her that she had never 
uttered before: “ God knows, I — I thought I was unhappy 
enough ; but — but this is more than I can bear. ’ ’ 

Janie was frightened — overawed, perhaps; but not for 
long ; she summoned all her courage to her, and she knelt 
down by her friend, and put her hand on her shoulder. 

“Come, come, Sabie, don’t give way so. Why, how 
you frightened me! You think he can’t take your boy 
away from you? What a silly notion ! Where is all your 
common sense gone to, Sabie? You poor thing, you have 
been living so much alone that all your nerves are gone 
astray, and anything terrifies you. A threat ! But what 
is a threat? A threat is nothing. And it’s your husband, 
I suppose, who says he.will take away the boy from you. 
I needn’t ask. But he hasn’t done it; and he won’t do it; 
I suppose you think there is no law in this country? 
Come, come, Sabie dear, pull yourself together, and tell me 
how he came to threaten anything so ridiculous.” 

Janie was very ^heerful and courageous ; but she grew 
less so as Sabina, rather falteringly,. told her tale ; and at 
the end of it she was very much concerned. For the 
truth was, her knowledge of the actual state of the law was 
no more exact than that of Sabina herself. 

“ I’ll go and ask Philip, perhaps he can tell us.” 

At the door, however, she suddenly paused and came 
back. 


200 


SABINA ZEAIBRA. 


“In any case,” she said, desperately, “in any case, the 
question need never arise at all! What you liave to do is 
to persuade your father to give you the money ; then the 
whole thing is rigkt. No one will attempt to take the 
boy!” 

“I will do my best,” Sabina said, with weary eyes and 
sad lips. “But I have no hope in that direction— none 
whatever. ’ ’ 

Janie went away to the studio to fetch her husband, and 
on their way back through the garden she briefly told him 
Sabina’s story, with some observations on the character 
and conduct of Fred Foster wliich might, perhaps, have 
startled that gentleman had he heard them. But she 
moderated her voice when they di’ew near the drawing- 
room. 

On their entrance, Sabina looked up quickly and anx- 
iously. 

“ You see, now,” Janie exclaimed, with an air of triumph. 
“You thought there was no law in this ^ountry? But if 
Phil tells you that you have the absolute guardianship of 
your child— that your husband can’t interfere for years 
and years to come—’ ’ 

“No. wait a moment,” the young artist said, less pas- 
sionately. “ That is only my impression, Mrs. Foster — my 
belief. But, goodness knows, I am not going to say any- 
thing in favor of the law as regards the guardianship of 
children, for, as far as I know it, it is most abominable and 
wicked. I am not quite sure at what age of the child the 
father’s legal control of it begins— but it is early. I know 
that ; and then not only has he the sole right to say what 
education, what religion, what companionship the child is 
to have, but he can take the boy or girl, as it happens to 
be, away from the mother altogether— -without the mother 
having done anything to justify his doing so! I hope I am 
not mistaken; but I am almost certain that is the law; and 
a more iniquitous thing Avas never imagined. It is simply 
playing into the hands of a scoundrel ; for, of course, a re- 
spectable man would not take the child away from its 
mother so long as she was fit to take the charge of it ” 

He stopped and blushed hotly. 

“ I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Foster,” he stammered. “I 
was not even tliinking of your husband— I was talking 
about the abstract question. And how t happen to know 
something about it is this— I know a case in which the hus- 
band, having promised before marriage that if there were 
any children by the marriage, they Avere to be brought up 
in the religion of the mother, changed his mind afterward, 
took the children aAvay from her, had them educated as he 
■wished, and brought up in his OAvn religion, and refused to 


SABINA ZE3IBEA, 


261 


nllow the mother to see them — except under a judge’s 
order, that enabled her to pay them a short visit at stated 
times. That is how I happen to know what the law is; 
and a more monstrous thing couldn’t be conceived.” 

“But, dearSabie, ” Janie said, eagerly, “in the mean- 
time he cannot touch your little boy !” 

“Do you think that is any consolation?” Sabina an- 
swered, but without reproach ; her eyes were absent. 

Philip Drexel turned to his wife. 

“ It’s Mrs. Whittington who is sitting to me this morn- 
ing. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she knew when the 
father can assume the sole legal control of a child. It’s 
wonderful how much some of those people know, where 
their interests are concerned — all about rates and taxes, 
school-boards, county courts, and things of that kind. If 
Mrs. Foster will excuse me for a moment, I will go and 
see.” 

He went along to the studio, and ’ returned in about a 
couple of minutes. 

“ For the first seven j^ears, she says, the mother has the 
guardianship of the child; and I am almost sure she is 
right.” 

“ Do you hear that, Sabie?” 

Sabina turned very pale. 

“When ho is seven years of age? Janie, think! Just 
think of it!” she said, piteously. “The boy grows up 
with you— your only companion— every fiber of your 
heart answering to his lightest touch; and then, when lie 
is seven, lie is snatched away from j^ou, and you may 
never see him again. God forgive me, but I could almost 
wish that my little one were dead now and in his grave; I 
should follow soon.” 

She rose wearily. 

“But in the meantime, Sabie, he is all yours,” Janie 
protested. “And yours only. No one can touch him.” 

“ Think of my life with this terror hanging over it,” she 
said. “And what can I do? I am helpless— helpless !” 

Janie caught her by the arm. 

“Sabie,” she said, vehemently, “you are not going out 
of this house like that. I will not allow you to go away in 
that frame of mind. And while Phil and I are alive you 
need not say you are helpless. What are you to do now? 
Why, nothing is more simple! You and I will get into a 
cab, and we will go along to your father’s house, or to the 
Waldegrave Club, or wherever he is likely to be; and then 
you must prevail on him to let you have the money— and 
there will be no question at all of taking the boy away. 
That is what has to be done— it is as clear as daylight.” 

“Unfortunately,” her husband interposed, “ it can’t be 


262 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

done just at this moment. Sir Anthony Zembra is in 
Antwerp.” 

Sabina turned quickly. 

“ How do you know?” 

“ He is over there at the Industrial Congress; I saw the 
names in this morning’s paper,” was the answer. 

” Ah, well, it does not much matter,” Sabina said; and 
her eyes looked tired and worn. “I could not have gone 
to see him without thinking over what I ought to say to 
him. I will go back to my little boy now; I need not 
miss any half hour of being with him — while that remains 
to me.” 

“Janie,” said the young artist, sharply, “why don’t 
you ask Mrs. Foster to stay with us for a few days until 
her father comes back from Belgium? The baby could be 
sent for.” 

But Sabina would not hear of that; nor would she allow 
Janie to go back with 'her to Witstead. Janie went with 
her to the Netting Hill Gate station, and then insisted on 
going with her to Victoria, and there they had to wait a 
little while for the train. The time was spent mostly in 
silence; for Janie’s heart was heavy within her — except 
when fiery pulses of indignation and wraith shot through 
it ; and she knew it was not worth while giving voice to 
these. And even her parting words of consolation and 
hope died away before the terrible loneliness and despair 
of this woman’s look. All the way home Janie was 
haunted by that look ; and also there was ringing through 
her brain an appeal — a single phrase that she had heard or 
read, though at the moment she could not remember 
where— but surely it was tt far-reaching cry of anguish : 

“ Is there no pity sitting in the clouds?” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ALLIES. 

When Fred Foster went to call upon Mrs. Fairservice in 
Jerinyn Street, it was not without studied preparation; his ' 
hat and boots and gloves were all new and neat, and he 
had taken the greatest care of his general appearance. As 
she came into the room, and carelessly gave him her hand, 
her sharp eyes noticed this at once, and she laughed a 
little. 

“What, then?” he said, rather resentfully; for no one 
likes to be scrutinized in that fashion. 

“ We’re smart, ain’t we?” 

“What did you expect?” he said. “ Did you want me ' 
to come in a fancy dress, like a ready-money fielder?” 

“I was thinking of Scarborough,” she said, good-nat- 


SABINA ZEiMBBA. 


m 


uredl3^ “Oh. don’t you think I am objecting. Quite the 
contrary. I think your appearance now would be much 
more likely to inspire the confidence of the betting public. 
And I hope it’s a sign of a change of luck— I do, indeed.” 

She was putting aside the window-curtains to let a little 
more of the afternoon light into the dusky apartment, 
while he put his hat and gloves on a small side- table hard 
by. But when she turned to him again she seemed to be 
struck with something in his look. 

“Halloa,” she said, “what’s the matter with your 
eyes?” 

“There’s nothing the matter with my eyes, ” he said, 
with still further subdued resentment. “There seems to 
be with yours, though. They’re remarkably inquisitive 
this evening.” 

“You don’t drink,” she said. “No, you were always 
too wide-awake for that. What have you been doing?” 

He was both impatient and angry, but did not dare to 
show it. He muttered something in an apologetic way of 
his having suffered severely from toothache of late, and of 
his having tried chloral to '^procure him a little rest. He 
did not choose to tell her that it was the sleepless nights of 
agony and remorse following his mother’s death that had 
driven him to this dangerous resource. 

“ Then you’d better stop,” Mrs. Fairservice said, plainly. 
“If you and I are going to do anything together you’ll 
want a level head. I suppose you understand?” 

“ Don’t you be afraid,” he said. “ I can’t see how an at- 
tack of toothache is going to interfere.” 

“Come, sit down, and tell me how your affairs are,” she 
said, in a friendly fashion, but still regarding him with a 
watchful eye. “ At any rate, you are in London— that’s a 
hopeful sign. Got everything squared up yet? Let me 
see, who was it who was coming in as peace maker?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I am all right, ’ ’ he said, with an assumption of 
easy confidence. “That is to say, everything wants a lit- 
tle time; but I see how it is to be managed. You mean 
Raby. No thanks to him. No; he played me a shabby 
trick, though Johnny Russell swears it was only careless- 
ness or indifference. Well, it does not matter much. Rus- 
sell has turned out a brick. And yet it does not seem such 
a great deal for a fellow with all his money to hold out a 
helping hand.” 

“You see. Master Fred, that depends,” Mrs. Fairservice 
remarked, coolly. “ One does not like in any case to throw 
good money after bad. I am glad your young friend 
thinks better of your prospects. What’s his little game?” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

“Why, what is his reason for coming forward in this 


264 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


magnaniinous way, and hauling you out of the ditch? It 
isn’t often done. What is his inducement?” 

“Well, I call it pure good-fellowship— friendship if you 
like.” 

She shook her head. 

“ No,” she said, with a smile. “That won’t do. That’s 
too thin. Or else he’s an awful softie.” 

“ Women’s views of friendship may be different from 
men’s,” he said. “I don’t know. However, it does not 
matter. The fact remains that I hope, with Jack Russell's 
help, to have everything fair and square in a very short 
time. And now the question is— what about Bernard?” 

It was curious to notice the sharp and sudden alteration 
of her look. She had been quite pleasant and debonair : 
even her scanning of his appearance was not unfriend!}^ ; 
her cynical confidences were uttered in perfect good- 
nature. But the mere mention of Bernard’s name sufficed 
to change all that in an instant. When next she spoke 
there was a baleful fire in her eyes, and her mouth was 
drawn and hard. 

“I had half-forgotten,” she said, with a kind of laugh. 
“ Seeing you so smart, I fancied you had come to take me 
to the theater. I had almost forgotten Mr. Bernard. One 
will forget one’s best friends sometimes.” 

She went to the sideboard, opened a drawer, took out a 
photograph, and, bringing it back, threw it on the table 
before Foster. 

“There, do you know who that is?” she said, with an- 
other ironical laugh. 

It was a portrait of a thin, wizened, prematurely old- 
looking young man, who was dressed as if he was going 
to a wedding, with a large “buttonhole” in his frock- 
coat. 

“Well, you might call him a swell, now, if you like,” 
Foster said. “Bought this out of a shop- window, I sup- 
pose? You see what it is to be famous. Cabinet-ministers, 
archbishops, and jockeys; I suppose Joe Cantly was in ex- 
cellent company.” 

“You may suppose anything you like,” she retorted; 
but don’t you imagine I bought that out of any shop win- 
dow. Oh, no, that is a present from Mr. Joe himself. And 
that is the footing we are on now.” 

“You’ve seen him?” he said, quickly. 

“Very much,” was the collected answer. “Charlie 
Bernard was over at Redcar. Joe was quite pleased to see 
an old friend. And you should have heard him swear on his 
honor as a gentleman— his honor as a gentleman— that not a 
living soul should know I had spoken to him. Now, what 
do you suppose a jockey’s ‘ honor as a gentleman ’ is 


SABINA ZEJIBEA. 


265 


worth? Can you put a price on it? No: I don’t want to 
say anything against the young man; he was very friendly 
with me, very grateful; I believe I could bring tears to his 
eyes by appealing to his noble sentiments. Wouldn’t you 
like to see that? I should. Fancy a jock Avith tears in his 
ej es — his hand clasped on his heart ” 

“ Yes, but did he say anything?” Foster interrupted. 

“Yes,” she said, slowly, “he told me that the rumors 
they have been putting about that Jackson will never be 
able to bring Roscrawn thoroughly sound to the j)ost are 
all gammon. The horse is as fit as a fiddle. That might 
be a good thing for you, eh? But I suppoSb you’re not 
doing much business with the pencilers at present?” 

“You know that is not what I asked you,” she said, 
peevishly. 

“Well,” she said, “you and I must understand each 
other. Master Fred. I should want to see you in a rather 
more secure position before chancing anything. How 
much time do you want? I confess I am in no great hurry. 
If I go for Charlie Bernard at all, it will be a thorough 
thing, I can tell you ; and I can bide my time. Indeed, 
there’s nothing else to be done at present. With Good- 
wood, Brighton, and Lewes over, there’s nothing Avorth 
mentioning now till the Leger — except the Ebor Handi- 
cap, and Cantly says that Bernard has no great faith in 
Red Manual.” 

“ He’s not going to back Red Manual?” Foster exclaimed 
--but this was really intended to give her the notion that 
information of the kind was becoming A^aluable to him. 

“To no great extent, anyway, if the immaculate Joe is 
to be believed. So that’ sjiot to be thought of. No, no; as 
I say, I’m going to take my time; Joe and I are far, far, 
far from being sufficiently friendly as yet ; and as for you 
— you’re no use to me as you are.” 

It was plain speaking, but he did not wince. 

“ You Avant time for yourself. Give me the same,” he 
said ; and then he added, ‘ ‘ I suppose you have some en- 
gagement for this eA^ening.” 

“I? Not I. I only came to town this morning.” 

“You spoke of the theater,” he said, rather nervously. 
“What do you say, now, to coming and dining Avith nie at 
a restaurant, and then I Avill send up a commissionaire to 
one of the Bond Street agencies to secure a box?” 

She was inclined to look upon this as a piece of bravado; 
but guessed that perhaps he had fallen in Avith a little 
money somewhere. And he had ; for the fifty pounds had, 
someAvhat unexpectedly, arrived from Buckinghamshire; 
and Foster Avas determined to make this go as far as pos- 
sible in showing evidence of his bettering condition. How 


266 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


much would Mrs. Fairservice imagine lay behind that little 
offer of a dinner and a box at the theater? 

“No, we’ll divide that programme into two halves,” she 
said. “You may' go and see about the box now; I will 
order a bit of dinner for us here. What o’clock is it?” 

Perhaps this w'as sarcasm ; she could see that his watch- 
pocket was empty. 

“I have left my watch at home,” he said. “But I 
should fancy it must be close on six.” 

“Then go and get the box,” she said. “ and I will order 
dinner for six- thirty. We may as well see the farce, if 
there is one; and I have good, healthy, old-fashioned 
tastes.” 

Now, not only did Mr. Foster go and secure for himself 
an expensive box at one of the best theaters, but also he 
went round by Covent Garden and purchased for Mrs. 
Fairservice a very beautiful bouquet. He himself carried 
it back with him to the hotel ; and when he presented it, 
there was no apparent cyniicism in the smile of thanks 
wdth which she received it. Perhaps she was a little bit 
impressed by this display of affluence, despite her habitual 
shrewdness. At all events, here he was in London, and 
with so little fear of being laid by the heels, or otherwise 
interfered with, that he was proposing to go to a public 
theater. 

Indeed, as they' sat at dinner, she became much more 
frank with him about her relations with Cantly, and her 
plans for working upon these. Once or twice, too, she 
seemed to imply that she was counting upon his — that is, 
upon Foster’s— confederacy ; and so anxious was he to as- 
sure her of his being a person worthy of trust that he would 
not, at first, touch a drop of wine. 

“What’s up now?” she said, when he refused. 

“I don't wish to provoke anymore complimentary re- 
marks, ’ ’ he answered. 

“Oh, about the look of y'our eyes?” she said. “If it 
(^omes to that, I would sooner see you drinking wine than 
drugging yourself with chloral. How long have you been 
at it.” 

'“How long have I been at it?” he repeated. “How 
long does a fit of toothache last? About a century, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Well, it must have been a pretty long fit to have al- 
tered your appearance so, ” she said, shrewdly^ ‘ ‘ I fancied 
you looked rather white about the gills when w^e met at 
Scarborough. And that’s not like you. You used to keep 
yourself in pretty fit condition.” 

“ I am as well as ever I was in my life,” he said, bluntly. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 267 

“ And I will take some wine— I would rather do that than 
be picked to pieces.” 

” Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” she said, good-naturedly. 
“It was only a little friendly inquiry. And, by the way, 
Master Fred, it has occurred to me that, in view of certain 
possibilities in the future, it would be as well for you and 
me not to be seen together at that theater to-night. One or 
other of us must keep in a safe corner in the box.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” he said, quickly. “ And as I 
haven’t evening dress on. I’ll keep in the background.” 

In due course of time Mrs. Fairser vice’s carriage was 
sunimoned, and they drove to the theater, where, if he re- 
mained discreetly withdrawn from the public gaze, she 
was very much en evidence indeed, with her opera-glass 
and fan and bouquet. It is to be feared that he did not 
pay great heed to the performances that followed. He had 
learned a good deal that evening. It was abundantly 
clear that, whoever might help him out of present straits, 
that person was not Mrs. Fairservice. Further than that, 
it was just as clear that she would have him present a 
pecuniary clean bill of health before accepting him as her 
coadjutor. On the other hand, she still seemed to count on 
his assistance; there was some little time yet in which to 
prove himself eligible for the honorable post; and the more 
he studied the possibilities of the scheme she was planning, 
the more he saw what a splendid coup it would prove for 
himself, if properly managed. But in the meanwhile the 
paramount need was money. Money must be got at all 
or any hazards — if only to stay the mouths of the wolves 
who were hunting him. 

When he had safely escorted Mrs. Fairservice back to 
her hotel, and made an appointment to see her that day 
week, he walked away up Regent Street to the Rocham 
beau Club, and asked if Mr. John Russell were within. 
The Rochambeau was a small club, of somewhat shady 
reputation, and chiefly devoted to baccarat, ecarte, poker, 
and billiards. At this hour— a little after eleven— it 
seemed deserted. Looking through the glass panels of the 
inner doors, Foster could only see one or two young men 
dawdling about in evening dress and crush-hats, and ap- 
parently just arrived from the theater. 

However, one of these did happen to be Mr. Johnny Rus- 
sell, who, when summoned by the waiter, came leisurely 
along into the outer hall, chewing a toothpick, and looking 
at once surprised and amused. 

“Well, this is a fair piece of bluff, this is,” he said. 

“I had to chance it — there was no help for it,” was Fos- 
ter’s answer. 

“No, no,” the flabby and white-cheeked young man 


2G3 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


said, facetiously, “ I can hardly belie v'e it. What do you 
hold in your hand? Three aces and a pair, ITl be bound. 
Or a straight flush? You’ve got something to show.” 

“I wish I had,” Foster said, bitterly. “I’ve come to 
town to ask you to do for me what Raby sneaked out of. 
A shabbier trick was never played. Your excuses for him 
only make it worse; for he never need have undertaken it 
at all if he didn’t mean it.” 

” Have a drink,” said Mr. Russell, coolly. “ That is one 
of the advantages of a proprietary club; you can have 
anything, at any time, and for anybody, that will put a 
penny in the manager’s pocket. Or a bit of supper? The 
fellows haven’t come in yet; there’s nothing doing.” 

“ No, I would rather not go into the club.” 

Russell laughed. 

” The cavalier in hiding— good subject for a picture.” 

Foster considered the pleasantry rather ill-timed, but 
was glad enough to And Johnny Russell in good-humor. 

•< “ Come out for a bit of a stroll,” he said. ” We can talk 
without risk of being overheard.” 

Russell put on a light overcoat, and together they went 
out; the dusky thoroughfares around Hanover Square 
gave them ample opportunity of uninterrupted conversa- 
tion. 

“Are you going to stand my friend, Jack?” was Foster’s 
plain question. 

“ To what tune?” was the equally plain answer. 

“Well, if you will lend me three hundred pounds — if I 
can show it — I can put my hand on another two hundred 
I)Ounds; and that together surely should pacify them in the 
meantime ” 

“Three hundred pounds!” the other said, in less friendly 
fashion. “ Why, Raby never suggested anything so much 
as that.” 

“No, because he didn’t know what a chance I had,” 
Foster said, eagerly. “He thought it was merely to put 
me on my legs again. But it isn’t that. I daren’t tell you 
what the chance is— but it’s a very big thing ” 

“Oh, yes, it’s always that,” the younger man said, evi- 
dently disliking the whole situation. “And perhaps it is 
a good chance. But, you know, Foster, I don’t quite 
see why I should pay in order to let you have another 
gamble.” 

“ It isn’t gambling at all!” Foster protested— and he was 
earnest enough on this occasion — “it is giving me a help- 
ing hand to let me get my head above water— and just 
; when there is a fresh start offered me. Besides, man, you 
will be paid— every farthing.” 

“ It’s easy to say that,” the other grumbled. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


2G0 


“ Oh, but this time it really is all right. As soon as Sir 
Anthony Zembra comes back from Antwerp my wife is 
going to him to get him to increase her allowance— there’s 
the grandson to be considered, you see — cind out of that in- 
crease she will pay you back the whole of the three hun- 
dred pounds, if you will only give her time. I need not 
appear in it at all. The installments — monthly or quarterly, 
as you please— will be forwarded by her. It is as safe as 
the bank !” 

“ How do you know that Sir Anthony will give your 
wife what she asks?” the other said, still suspicious. 

“Why, he's bound to! But I’ll tell you what — wait 
and see. I am content to abide by the result.” 

“ Who is to let me know?” Johnny Russell said, ratlier 
coldly. 

This was so plain an intimation that Foster’s word might 
not be considered as all-sufficient, that for a second or two 
he was rather at a loss. But presently he said : 

“ Why, it’s very simple. AVill you be content with this? 
If my wife writes to you and says she is in a position to 
pay you so much a quarter, and will do so, will that sat- 
isfy you?” 

“Yes, certainly.” 

“ And you will let me have the money?” 

“Yes.” 

“ It’s a bargain then,” Foster said, with evident relief. 
“ Mind you, old fellow, I haven’t said much about grati- 
tude and all that, but I don’t forget such things. It’s 
when a fellow is down that he feels them most. Come,” 
he said, presently, ‘ ‘ there’s a public house down there. 
Let’s have a brandy -and-soda on the strength of this. I’ve 
been at the theater this evening — with a Mrs. Fairservice 
— and doing propriety. I should like £i drink.” 

“Public-house brandy,” said Johnny Russell, rather 
gloomily. “ Why didn’t you have it at the Club?” 

“Oh, it’s all the same— it’s all corn and potato spirit,” 
Foster said, cheerfully. “It will be quite a new sensation 
for me to stand treat at a counter— a remembrance of old 
days, when you had got hold of a thirsty bookie and 
wanted him to give you something like Christian prices. 
The worst of these places is that their spirits are so diluted 
that you can hardly taste them; the only way is to have a 
double dose.” 

So Foster and his friend went into the private bar and 
had their drink there— though Johnny Russell did not 
seem to like the look of this unfamiliar place. 

“And how long are you going to face it out in London?” 
the latter asked. “ It’s ])retty cheeky, you know.” 

“Yes, I believe you,” Foster said— to whom a deep 


* SABINA ZEMBBA. 


draught of the brown brandy and soda-water seemed to 
have imparted a new animation. “ But 1 am quite aware 
that the atmosphere of the metropolis of England is much 
too sultry for my constitution, I’m off to-morrow or next 
day. I shall vanish like a ghost— until I hear it’s all right 
about the three hundred pounds, and then I’ll get you two 
hundred pounds, and give you a list of people — the Jen- 
nings, and Jim Deane, and a lot of them, and you’ll have 
to do your best to bring them to reason. I know you will 
do it far better than Raby. They Avould suspect him. 
He’s too keen a file all the way round. But they must know 
you have nothing to gain; sha’n’t we have a jolly little 
dinner, old man, when I can come back clear and safe— at 
the Bristol, eh? — the old room?” 

There was a kind of incoherence about his talk and man- 
ner, though that could hardly be attributed to drink, for 
he had taken very little wine at dinner, and had since 
touched nothing till now. 

” Where are you off to, then?” his companion said. 

“Oh, I’ll find some safe quarters somewhere — where I 
can see a morning gallop or two. Not in Yorkshire, though, 
I hope; just you believe me, I had a baddish time of it 
when I was there. I never was so down on my luck ” 

“You’re not looking very well after it, anyway,” Rus- 
sell said, regarding him with his pale, lack-luster eyes. 
“ No, by Jove, you’re not looking up to the mark.” 

“Neither would you be, I dare say,” Foster rejoined, 
with simulated cheerfulness. “Well, old man, you’re off 
back to the Club, I suppose. I’m going down home to try 
and get some sleep. I’ve had some bad nights lately.” 

Outside the public-house there were a few final words of 
undertaking and direction, and then they parted, and went 
their several ways. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE INTERPOSING HAND. 

“Mother,” cried Janie, bustling into the old-fashioned 
little dining-room in Kensington Square, and just a little 
breathless, either from some unusual excitement, or from 
quick walking, “ here’s a splendid project, now! Phil has 
sent me down to tell you, for we want you to help; and if 
' only we succeed, won’t you be as pleased as any of us ! Of 
course it’s about Sabie ; you may be sure of that. You 
can’t tell how distressed Phil and I have been about her 
since we saw her last. Why, she has become quite a dif- 
ferent creature from the Sabie we used to know — you re- 
member how proud and merry and self-confident she used 
to be— a queen wherever she went — and now she is nervous 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


271 


and terrified and cowed; fancy our Sabie being cowed — by 
a whipper-snapper like that! But it’s all through her pas- 
sionate love of her boy ; her alarm seems to have got the 
better of her reason altogether: you never saw anything 
Hke it. I believe Foster could make her sing in the streets 
if he chose; and I believe he would do it, if he thought he 
could get any money by it.” 

“ But about the project, Janie?” 

“I am coming to that. I had a letter from Walter 
Lindsay this morning. He has been away in Canada; that 
is why we have not heard from him for so long. And 
now, he says, as we have been talking of paying our first 
visit to Scotland, his place in Wigtonshire is entirely at 
our disposal, if Phil and I think of going round that way. 
Isn’t it good of him? His brother-in-law, who lives near, 
looks after the property for him ; but there is no one living 
in the house. He says it is a small place, but the grounds 
are pretty ; and there is a lake not far off where we can 
have the use of a boat. Well, we had been rather undecided 
about going North ; but that decided it : nothing ever came 
in so handy. You remember I told you Phil had been asked 
by some rich picture- buyer he knows— I forget his name — 
to visit him this autumn at his place in Islay ; and there 
are to be three academicians there, for the fishing and 
shooting ; and Phil rather wanted to see what that kind of 
life in the Highlands was like — looking on, of course, for I 
shouldn’t think he would be much use with a rod or a gun. 
But where could he leave me, that was the question. I 
wasn’t in the invita,tion ; I never saw the man; and the no- 
tion of my dawdling in a hotel in a Scotch town until Phil 
came back didn't strike either of us as fascinating. And 
now do you see how Mr. Lindsay’s offer clinched the 
matter?” 

“At any rate, I cannot understand how any one should 
have two houses hanging useless on his hands like that,” 
Mrs. Wy gram said. “Why doesn’t he .come back to his 
own country?” 

Janie sighed. 

‘ ‘ Why ? He says he gets fresh material over there, and 
sells his pictures easily. But I don’t think it is that that 
keeps him on the other side of the Atlantic.” 

“You have not said anything of Sabie in all this,” her 
mother reminded her. 

Janie brightened up instantly. 

“The moment we had settled the matter so far, Phil 
said to me, ‘Now, look here; if your mother could only 
persuade Mrs. Foster to give up the charge of her child to 
her for that time, what is to hinder your beloved Sabie 
from coming along with us? I will pay her traveling ex* 


m 


SABINA ZE3IBBA, 


penses; Foster would have the whole of her income while 
she was away ; he wouldn’t object. And then if that place 
in Wigtonshire turned out to be a niceish sort of place, 
Sabie and you could remain there till I got back from 
Islay.’ Mother, just think of it!” said Janie, with a little 
laugh of delight. “Think of Sabie and I walking over the 
hills, and rowing in a boat on the lake, and running about 
the garden. It is just a dream of happiness. And then, 
when Phil comes back, Ave will all go on together to Edin- 
burgh, I suppose. Edinburgh and Melrose Abbey; these 
are tlie two things I stipulate for. Phil can settle all the 
rest.” 

“ And my share,” said Mrs. Wygram, Avith a smile, “is 
to take charge of the boy in London.” 

“ Ah, but Ave kneAv you would gladly do that, forSabie’s 
sake,” her daughter said. “ When Phil proposed that she 
should come Avith us, he was thinking of me. She was to 
be a traveling companion for me. But that is not Avhat I 
am looking forward to. I am looking forward to getting 
her aAvay for awhile from that man ; to see if Ave cannot 
give her back a little of the cheerfulness and courage of the 
Sabie of old days. Of course, it aauII take a fearful amount 
of coaxing before she aauII agree topartAvith the child, even 
for that short time. You will have to talk her over, 
mother, or shall Ave go doAvn together? You see, as soon as 
Phil has finished the last of the cartoons for Verner Castle, 
Ave shall be free; and although aa^o sha’n’t be in time for 
him to see the shooting on the tAvelfth — that is the great 
day, he says — still, Ave should get North as soon as possible. 
You’ll come to see us off at Euston, mother, Avon’t ymu? 
We may haA-^e to buy some rugs and wraps for Sabie, for 
it’s ahvays so cold in Scotland, they say. Oh, Avon’t it be 
fine in that railway-carriage; Phil may fall in love with 
her if he likes; I don’t care.” 

“Yes, that’s all A^ery ay ell,” the mother said (and yet 
she Avas quite Avilling to accept her somewhat invidious 
share in this arrangement), “but you are putting all the 
difficulties on to me. It isn’t the taking care of the little 
boy here— that Ave could manage Avell enough; it’s the 
talking Sabie over, and I don’t think I shall succeed in 
that.” 

“ But we must succeed, and Ave shall succeed, mother,” 
Janie said. “ Phil has to go doAvn to Verner Castle this 
week; as soon as he has fixed the day, I Avill let you know, 
and Ave Avill take that day to go to Witstead. And if you 
can’t talk her into saying yes, I Avill force her.” 

“You force her!” the mother said, Avith a smile. 

“Oh, yes I can, Janie said, confidently. “Sabie has 
none of her old masterful ways noAv. I am going to take 


SABINA ZEMBRA. „ 27:3 

the management of her. I will compel her to come with 
us.” 

‘•Don’t be too harsh with her, Janie.” 

” That is so very likely !” 

Then she went away with her brain very busy, and Ken- 
sington High Street became a place of dreams. What 
ideas Janie had formed of the region 

“ Where the kingdom of Galloway’s blest 
With the smell of bog-myrtle, and peat,” 

it is hard to say ; but, like most people who have never 
crossed the Cheviots, she probably considered Scotland as 
synonymous with the Highlands; and no doubt had already 
romantic visions in her mind of beetling crags, and lofty 
mountains, and precipitous waterfalls. Had she been told 
that the people of Galloway wore the kilt and talked Gaelic 
she would scarc^ely have been surprised. But that was not 
the point. In these roseate forecasts of hers she was think- 
ing less of the character of the country and its inhabitants 
than of her traveling about in the constant societj^ of 
Sabina; that was to be the charm of this excursion, what- 
ever the scenery or the people might be like. And she 
could not but be struck by the curious reversal of their po- 
sitions. It was Sabina now who was to be the petted and 
protected one — Sabina, who used to be so headstrong in 
her good-humored fashion, so self-reliant, so imperious and 
arbitrary in her very kindness. She could hardly think 
of that gay-hearted, willful, radiant creature as being one 
and the same person with the poor, trembling, terror- 
stricken mother who had come to them but the other day, 
white-faced and haggard-eyed, to ask them whether her 
boy could be taken away from her. 

But all these plans and forecasts were to be rudely and • 
suddenly shattered. When she returned home, she was 
surprised to find her husband in the house; ordinarily, at 
this time of the day, he was busy in the studio. Moreover, 
he was clearly waiting for her. 

“Janie,” he said, “I have opened a letter sent to you. 

I saw by the outside it might contain news that — that 

would startle you. I thought it better to open it ” 

For a second her heart stood still with fear. In his hand 
there was an envelope that was black-bordered. 

“ Not Sabie?” she cried. 

“No,” he answered, gravely; “ no, but her husband ” 

He handed her the envelope, and quickly and breath- 
lessly she opened it, and took out the contents. These 
were merely a cutting from a Yorkshire newspaper, con- 
taining the customary list of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, 
and at the foot of "the middle section was the laconic 


274 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


announcement : “On the 9th instant, at Market Hatley, 
Mr. Fred Foster, aged 29 years.” And then, on the mar- 
gin of the paper, were a few words in a trembling hand- 
writing that she recognized easily enough; “ Dearest 
Janie, — Don’t come to me just yet. I will write. — S.” 

Janie looked frightened only for a moment; presently a 
kind of wonder shone in her face. 

“ Oh, Phil,” she cried, in accents that certainly did not 
betray much sorrow, “ Sabie will come back to us— to Ken- 
sington Square— or here— Avill she come and live with us 
here? Just think of it ! We will have the old days back 
again — and — and I will go at once and telegraph to Walter 
Lindsay!” 

“ You will do nothing of the kind; you will do nothing 
so unseemly,” her husband said at once. “Are you out 
of your^enses? And I don’t think you need make it a 
matter of rejoicing that you should hear of the death of a 
fellow-creature. ” 

“ Oh, no, I don’t— at least, I wouldn’t, before other peo- 
ple,” said Janie, rather incoherently. “But I thought 
there was no more hope in this world for my poor Sabie— 
and now there is— surely, surely there is, Phil. And why 
may not I go and see her noAV? Perhaps she has gone 
away north to the funeral. Then why didn’t she telegraph 
to me to go down and take charge of the boy? I’m sure I 
would have done it instantly. But most likely old Mr. 
Foster is arranging everything for her.” 

And then again she said: 

“ Don’t be angry with me, Phil; but how can you expect 
me to be sorry? If you only kneAv as I know what she 
has suffered 1 And why may not I send a message to Mr. 
Lindsay ?’ ’ 

‘ “You know very well,” her husband said. “Before 
even the dead man .is in his grave ! x\nd how do you know 
it Avould be Avelcome? It will be much better for you to 
leave things alone.” 

“I don’t see how it could do any harm,” Janie said, 
wistfully. 

“And there’s another thing I may Avarn you about. 
When you do go to see your friend, just you take care 
Avhat you say about her deceased husband— if you Avant to 
remain her friend. It’s Avonderful how a av O man’s opin- 
ions are apt to change in a matter of this kind. She will 
let her husband ill-use her for years— she may have her 
eyes perfectly open to all his bad and mean qualities; but 
as soon as he goes and mercifully dies, it’s Avonderful hoAv 
soon all these things are forgotten, and the dear departed 
becomes sanctified into a hero. It isn’t reasonable, of 
{•ourse, but it’s human native; and although you used al- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


275 


ways try fo make out your Sabie to be a perfect goddess, 
without a fault, T consider her to be a very womanly 
woman, and I shouldn’t at all be surprised if she were to 
begin now and look back with regret and remorse on her 
treatment of Foster.” 

“ Her treatment of Foster!” Janie exclaimed. 

“Yes; I say it, and I mean it. She will accuse herself 
of not having humored him sufficiently, of having shown 
him indifference or neglect — a hundred things; and she 
will think of all that was best about him, and blame her- 
self for the failure of their married life. So you be warned 
in time. Don’t you say a word against him ; and don’t look 
as if the news rather pleased you.” 

She was rather impressed by these words of counsel. 

” I suppose what you say is quite right, Phil,” she said, 
submissively. 

But she had to go and do some shopping; and the 
moment she was out of the house this moderating influence 
seemed to fall away from her. For she was thinking over 
all that had happened since Sabina’s marriage ; and again 
she saw the anguish-stricken face of the mother dreading 
to be robbed of her child ; and again the cry rang through 
her brain — “Is there no pity sitting in the clouds?” 
“There is! — there is! — there is!” Janie passionately said 
to herself; and she had no remorse whatever in rejoicing; 
the news, she declared to herself, and would hold to it, was 
good news. 

She had to pass a telegraph office ; and there she paused 
for a second, in wistful hesitation. It seemed such a pity 
that Walter Lindsay should not know. The message need, 
not be meant as a summons to him to come back to his 
own country. It would merely be information. How could 
it be unwelcome, in that sense? Say, at the worst, that he 
was engaged to be married to some one else, he could not 
have quite forgotten his old regard for Sabina. Surely he 
would be interested in learning of her fortunes. Men were 
fickle, as she had heard ; there had been great distances of 
time and space between these two; he had no right to 
cherish any feeling warmer than friendship for a woman 
Avho had married. But even friendship? Would not any 
friend of Sabie's be interested? And surely Walter Lind- 
say (if she understood him) most of all? So Janie argued 
with herself, loitering there irresolute ; and then she re- 
membered her husband’s charge to her, and tore herself 
reluctantly away. 

Indeed, she was rather proud of herself in that she could 
thus calmly consider the hypothesis of Walter Lindsay 
being engaged to be married; but, oddly enough, her next 
proceeding was to stop in front of a shop window where 


276 


SABINA ZE3IBRA. 


Avere exhibited a number of portraits of ladies of the great 
world, and of the stage, and to set about asking herself 
whether any one of them could be compared to Sabina. 
This one had a royal carriage of the head ; that was pen- 
sive looking, with mysterious dark eyes; the other Avas 
bright), Auvacious, coquettish-looking. But Avhere Avas the 
one of them who had Sabina’s charm, her bland gentle- 
ness, her gracious repose? And then the next thing was to 
Avonder if Walter Lindsay Avould find Sabina as beautiful 
as he had thought her in the former days? Philip said she 
Avas more beautiful ; but then Philip worshiped the mater 
dolorosa type in Avomen: and Janie Avas not at ail anxious 
that Lindsay should be struck with that aspect of Sabina. 
Oh, no; long before he should set eyes on her, Sabie Avould 
be back in Kensington Square; the rose-leaf tint would be 
returning to her cheeks and lips; there would be a subdued 
light of happiness in the calm and benignant eyes. As for 
Sabina’s golden-brown hair, that was still as beautiful and 
abundant as ever; not all her troubles had sufficed to in- 
terweave in it a single silver streak. 

Janie got her shopping done somehoAv; and then she 
sped aAvay home, and sought the quietude of her oavii 
room. She was rather a superstitious young person, in a 
half-doubting, whimsical way ; and on occasion was accus- 
tomed to consult the sortes Virgiliance : although, not 
being able to read Virgil, she liad to substitute the Script- 
ures, as the early Christians did. It may be added that 
she Avas not strictly methodical in her divination; for, in- 
stead of taking the first passage that met her eyes, she 
claimed the right of searching the Avhole of the chance- 
opened page for an appropriate verse— a practice which 
frequently got rid of enigmas, and brought her instead 
some little comfort. 

So now, taking the small Bible that lay on her dresssing- • 
table, she shut her eyes, and opened the leaves at random. 
When she came to look, it Avas a chapter of Isaiah that lay 
before her, and quickly she glanced oA^er the Akerses. This 
one was the last on the page— and Janie’s heart was re- 
joiced and glad as she read and re-read the divine promise 
of better things for the Avasted and sorrowing city of Jeru- 
salem— “O thou afflicted, tossed Avith tempest, and not 
comforted, behold I will lay thy stones Avith fair colors, 
and lay thy foundations Avith sapphires.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE exile’s return. 

It was not until the month of December in that year 
that Walter Lindsay left for home; and a very cold, gray, 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


277 


and cheerless passage he had of it across the Atlantic. 
But a landscape painter, of trained observation and reten- 
tive memory, has advantages beyond those of other 
mortals. At will he can dismiss his actual surroundings, 
and, bj^ the mere shutting of his eyes, summon before him 
scenes from distant lands; and not only that, but these 
visions are ordinarily of unwonted beauty because it is their 
beauty that has stamped them on his mind. Nay, he can 
occupy himself with filling in the minutest details of color 
and form, until the living picture stands clear and sharp 
before him ; no need for him to sadden himself, hour after 
hour, with the monotonous waste of the steel-gray, slow- 
rolling Atlantic seas. 

You may be sure it was mostly England that was in 
Lindsay s thoughts, as, wrapped in Canadian furs, he 
paced up and down the chill decks on these blowy morn- 
ings; or, in the hushed evenings, in the great saloon, lay 
and only half -listened to the heavy throbbing of the screw 
and the occasional singing of a group of girls. And he tried 
to be not alwaj's dreaming about Kensington Square. 
Here, for example, was a winter scene on the Sussex coast; 
and he added touch after touch to it, as if he had a canvas 
before him, and with a kind of affection almost. A bright 
morning shining over the wide, smooth, solitary downs; 
here and there a dark -green turnip-field; here and there a 
breadth of red plowed land; a farm-steading near the 
horizon ; the new roofs of the barns and out-houses scarlet- 
tiled, the old roofs orange-lichened. A small hamlet in a 
distant hollow; a few pigeons flying about the weather- 
stained belfry of the church-tower. A long- winding ruddy- 
yellow road in front of him, of chalk and sand and flint ; the 
pools of recent rain — those near him--of a brownish-saffron 
hue; those a little further off, a faint purple (the reflected 
blue of the zenith mixing with the local color) ; those still 
further away, of the more brilliant azure. A cloudless 
sky; a cold wind; the keen sunlight striking vividly on the 
long- trending lines of the chalk cliffs, and on the wide pale 
plain of the sea. 

Or again it would be a sheltered little bay that he had 
once discovered in the far northern wilds of his own coun- 
try— a silent, unfrequented curve of white sand facing the 
western waves. And what beautiful bits of color he found 
there, or placed there, as his fancy chose; brown and lilac 
pebbles, velvet-soft in the light, each with its touch of blue 
shadow; scattered masses of ox-eye daisies, hardly mov- 
ing in the soft summer air; thistles purple- topped; the 
crimson-stemmed sorrel; the silver- weed, with its leaves of 
intensest green, and its long rose-red threads, stretching 
put over the cream-white soil, and rooting themselves here 


m 


SABh\A ZEMBRA. 


and there. Behind him a golden-j^ellow corn-field; before 
him a sea of driven and vivid blue; beyond that a pale line 
of distant hills ; and above these again a sky of faintest 
turqoise, deepening and deepening into a dark sapphire 
overhead. 

Moreover, he had cultivated this habit of minute and 
patient picture-building for an especial reason. Once or 
twice it had occurred to him that his e^^esight was not as 
good as it had been. Now an artist is naturally extremely 
sensitiv^e on this point ; and it is hardlj" to be wondered at 
that in the solitariness of his life among the Canadian lakes 
or on the wide Colorado plains he should sometimes have 
been haunted by gloomy forebodings. On such occasions 
he would summon his philosophy to his aid, and boldly 
face the worst. What, then, if he were to become blind? 
He had enough to live on. 

Probably he had given to the world the best he could do 
as an artist. He would retire to some place familiar to 
him— Galloway most likel5^ and spend there a by no means 
miserable existence ; for surely, if his attendant gave him 
a hint or two — the flowers by the wayside, the look of the 
sky, the number of ships visible from Kirkcolim Point, and 
the like— he could coiistruct out of his own memory some 
recognizable picture of his surroundings. No number of 
years could make him forget (for example), the color of 
the silver- weed’s rose-red stems creeping out on the milk- 
white sand. And then, again, in some distant time, he 
might come to London. Perhaps, at Janie’s house, he 
would meet Sabina. And then would he not have reason 
to rejoice? “ Why,” he would say to himself, ” look what 
an advantage you have over all these others. Sabina is 
middle-aged now; perhaps her hair is streaked with silver; 
perhaps the youthful brilliancy has faded away from her 
kind ej'es. These others see all that; you do not. When 
you hear her speak, she is still to you the Sabina of former 
years; to you she remains ever beautiful, youthful, ra- 
diant; her eyes are more than kind, they have the witch- 
ery of young womanhood ; and so it will be to the end. 
SIhe grows old to others, not to you. So thank (Jod for 
your blindness, and rest well content.” Of course, these 
were the morbid imaginings of a solitary life and distant 
travel. When he returned to New York — and to the Tile 
Club, and the Monks of St. Giles, and the theaters, and 
dinner-parties, and the ordinary amusements and occupa- 
tions of social life — he forgot all about them, and ceased 
to trouble his head about the matter. 

But if these were beautiful pictures of England he was 
summoning up, as he paced the deck under the leaden-gray 
sky, or sat in the saloon of an evening, listening to the 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


279 


dismal boom of the fog-horn overhead, England sorely dis- 
appointed him when he arrived there. It was raining 
heavily at Liverpool ; and Liverpool, on a wet, darkening 
December afternoon, is not an exhilarating sight. On his 
journey up to London next day a cold, damp mist lay over 
the land, and the great hive of the metropolis, as he drove 
through the somber streets, was scarcely the brilliant city 
of his memories and dreams. But when he reached his 
home, there something more cheerful awaited him; for 
Janie (who had a house, and her husband a studio, of their 
own now) had been along to see that the housekeeper had 
everything in readiness; and there was a big fire blazing 
in the dining-room, and luncheon was on the table ; and 
there were a few flowers also, placed there by Janie's own 
hands; altogether the place looked exceedingly bright, 
warm, comfortable, and home-like. 

Luncheon did not take him long; but there was a vast 
pile of letters, prints, and packages to be glanced through ; 
then he was ready to go out. But whither? He wished to 
see Janie, but it was rather early yet for an afternoon call. 
Eventually he put on his coat and hat and went out, and 
by instinct rather than intention wandered idly down to 
High Street, Kensington. 

It was strange to find himself in the old familiar thor- 
oughfare, and it looking so different from his storied mem 
ories of it. Somehow he had been used to picture it as 
under the light of a clear summer afternoon, himself come 
out after his day’s work, perhaps with some faint hope of 
catching a glimpse of the tall form of Sabina, on her way 
homeward to Kensington Square. But now the short De- 
cember day was drawing into dusk; a pale blue mist hung 
about; the streets were miry. It is true that with all this 
the neighborhood wore a festive air; evergreens and holly 
berries were in the shop windows; the pavements were 
crowded with elderly people who seemed benign of aspect, 
and who were generall}'^ accompanied by small folk who 
had the delight and excitement of Christmas presents 
clearly shining in their eyes. And he was glad to be home 
in England for Christinas. 

At last — at last— and perhaps with some trifle of heart 
throbbing that he would hardly care to have owned— he 
went a little way down Young Street, so that he could 
look across Kensington Square. It was a doleful sight 
enough ; the leafless, smoke-blackened tress, the dank green 
grass, the dingy laurels, the bedraggled chrysanthemums; 
with the melancholy gray -blue pall of the twilight weighing 
heavier and heavier, and as yet unpierced by a single orange 
ray. And yet he had a curious kind of affection for this place 
and the keenest interest in it; and those old-fashioned 


280 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


houses over there had a cliarin for him beyond any range 
of palaces in Venice. They were very different, doubt- 
less, from his dreams of them in the far Canadian wilds. 

There they had been of a golden cast, with light summer 
airs floating about them, and a June foliage on the trees; 
now they were dark, and indeed almost becoming invisi- 
ble in the closing down of the melancholy London after- 
noon. But they were actual. They had human life within 
them. Was it possible that on this northern side (which 
he could not see) Sabina might be standing at the window 
of the well-remembered drawing-room, looking out on this 
very picture of desolation? He dared not go nearer. He 
Avished to be prepared for meeting her, if he was to meet 
her. But he lingered about there for some time, until, of 
a sudden, a shaft of golden fire flashed through the dusk 
from the first lighted of the lamps; and he tlmught he 
might now go and call upon his ever faithful friend. 

He found Janie in possession of a smart little house in 
Victoria Road ; and the moment he entered the draAving- 
room, she came quickly to meet him, Avith both hands ex- 
tended, and Avith abundant friendliness beaming in her 
mild gray eyes. 

‘'I am so glad to see you!” she cried; and added, rather 
incoherently, “and all of us — all of us — of course you ought 
to be back in your oavii country. I am so glad you have 
come back!” But there was some surprise in her face too. 
“And how you have changed! I don’t believe I should 
have knoAvn you if I had met you in the street. You are 
more like a hunter than an artist?” 

“I have been living a good deal of a backAvoodsman’s 
life these last two or three years,” he said; and indeed she 
could have guessed as much, for the fine-featured face had 
lost all its pallor of former days, and become eA^enly sun- 
broAvned; and his tall and slender figure had a touch of 
added breadth; and there Avas a more muscular set of the 
shoulders. Janie Avas quite proud— though she did not 
stay to ask herself Avhy— to see him look so handsome 
and Avell. 

Of course there Avere a hundred rapid and cheerful ques- 
tions to be put and answered ; and she gave him all the in- 
formation she had about the people knoAvn to them ; but 
the subject really uppermost in both their minds Avas 
sedulously left out. Janie Avas a little friglitened. in truth. 
Perhaps he had come home engaged? Or he might even 
have brought a AAufe Avith him? On liis side some kind of 
delicacy kept him silent. And so it came about that it Avas 
quite by accident that Sabina Avas brought into the conver- 
sation. 

Behind him there was a picture he had not as yet seen ; 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


2S1 


for he was seated facing the window. It was let into a 
panel over the mantel-piece, and on the oak fi’amework 
there was inscribed, in curious characters, the word 
“ Hesperus.” The subject Avas the solitary, upright figure 
of a tall young woman, clad in loose draperies, moving 
through the ethereal spaces of the evening sky ; some som- 
ber gleams of red beneath her feet ; the darkening heavens 
above her showing here and there a distant star; her up- 
raised arm and hand holding high before her a ball of 
luminous white fire. Her face was sad and wan; her 
inouth pensive ; her eyes wide apart and mysterious and 
dim. Mannered even to the verge of affectation, this was 
really a very creditable piece of work; it showed, at all 
events, imaginative effort ; and as it Avas a wedding-pres- 
ent that Janie had received from her husband, it is hardly 
to be Avondered at that she had insisted on its occupying 
the place of honor in her draAving-room. 

Now in the mutual embarrassment of trying to avoid all 
mention of Sabina’s name, they had talked about a large 
variety of persons and things; and at last Lindsay came to 
speak of Janie’s ucav house, Avhich her husband had fur- 
nished in a highly superior fashion. Happening to cast 
his eyes about the room, he caught sight of this picture, 
and there AA^as something about the look of the head that 
caused him to get up and go nearer. But he had not been 
there for a second— gazing at the pensive face and the dim 
and mystic eyes— Avheii Janie Avas at his side. 

” But, you knoAv, Mr. Lindsay,” she said, rather breath- 
lessly and anxiously, “you mustn’t think that is really 
like hQv— really like her, I mean— you knoAV, that is only 
Phil’s Avay of painting — Sabie isn’t (juite so— quite so— sad- 
looking as that. Of course it is a little like ; but it is done 
from photographs and recollection; and, you know, Phil 
Avill paint in his oavii Avay. Oh, no, don’t think Sabie is 
like that!” 

And Walter Lindsay thought to himself, “Well, men 
say that Avomen are never really friends among themselves. 
But here is a Avoman AA^ho, for fear that an unfavorable im- 
pression of a friend of hers may be produced on a casual 
stranger, is quite content to speak slightingly of her OAvn 
husband’s Avork.” 

“She is in London?” he said, still looking at those sad- 
dened eyes. 

“ Oh, no,” said Janie, Avho, noAv that the ice was broken, 
proved as eager to give information as before she was reti- 
cent. “No; I wish she Avas. She Avon’t leave that house 
in Surrey, no matter Avhat Ave say ; it seems it Avas a Avish 
of her husband’s; though Avhy she should respect any Avish 
of his, or his memory either, I can’t make out. Oh, Mr, 


282 


BABIN A ZEMBRA. 


Lindsay, I never told you half the truth about poor Sabie. 
I couldn’t. I thought it Avas no use making 3^ou wretched 
—I mean, I naturally imagined you Avould remember 
something of her, however far away you might be, and 
you mightn’t like to hear ill news of a friend. And I need 
not tell you now, either, for it is all over, and I hope Sabie 
will forget it in time. And sooner or later, I know, we 
shall have Sabie coming to London; and there are two 
houses, anyway, where there is a home and a Avarm Avel 
come aAvaiting her; for Phil is just as good as gold— 
Avhy, Avhere do you think he is just now?” 

” I’m sure I don’t knoAv.” 

‘ ‘ AAvay buying Christmas toys to send doAvn to the little 
boy. And a rare hash he Avill make of it, I suppose; for 
liOAv should he know? But I thought I Avould stay in, as I 
expected you.” 

She Avent back to her seat by. the table, and he f olloAved 
her. 

” I suppose you see her sometimes?” he said. 

“ Oh, yes,” she answered; and then she added, quickly, 
“ And if you were to call upon her, there Avould be no — no 
embarrassment ; for Ave have tacitly agreed never to speak 
about the past at all. It is the best way ; and Ave adopted 
it from the very beginning. You know Phil has a great 
deal of common-sense and Avisdom for one of his dreamy 
and poetic nature, and he Avarned me, the first time I Avent 
down to see Sabie, that if I said anything against Foster, 
she might very likely turn on me to defend him. Very 
Avell, I said to myself, if I am to say no harm of him, I 
Avill say no good of him; for I 'am not going to tell lies, 
even in the Avay of condolence; and if Sabie likes to forget, 

, I Avon’t. Of course it was very awkAvard, and I looked for- 
) Avard to meeting her Avith dread ; but there happened the 
greatest stroke of luck. Just as I got out of the train at 
Witstead Station, so did Sir Anthony Zembra. I suppose 
she had sent for us both on the same day; but it Avas pretty 
fortunate we should go doAvn by the same train. I thought 
that Sir Anthony Avould haA^e forgotten me ; but he spoke 
to me, and we Avalked to the house together. Do you see 
how lucky it was? I had to tell no lies anyway, or profess 
a grief that I certainly didn’t feel; nothing but the most 
ordinary commonplaces were said; Foster’s name Avas 
hardly mentioned; Avhat Sir Anthony Avanted mostly was 
to get her to remove to London. You should have seen 
hoAv he figured and posed as the injured party, hoAv mag- 
nanimously he offered to forget the past ; and produced a 
check for one hundred pounds— this Avas before me, mind 
—to defray all little expenses and leave her free to moA^e 
into the house he offered to take for her. I do belipA^e he 


SiABINA ZEMBRA. 


288 


thought he was the most magnanimous man in this coun- 
try at that moment, and was himself astonished that he 
did not complain of her conduct or say hard things of her 
dead husband. Not that I quarrel with him on that ac- 
count ; the dear departed would have had none of my tears, 
if they had been asked for. And you should have seen Sir 
Anthony’s splendid air when he announced to her that he 
should now give her the same allowance that she had be- 
fore her marriage ; as if she had condoned everything now 
by burying that wretch.” 

Janie stopped suddenly, and her pale face showed a little 
color. 

“Please, Mr. Lindsay, you won’t think me cruel? Phil 
says I am unwomanly. But you don’t know— and he 
doesn’t know — what poor Sabie has suffered. Not that she 
shows much trace of it— oh no. Oh, you must not think 
that at all,” said Janie, earnestly. “She may be a little 
grave in manner ; but — but — you must rather think of her 
as she was the night of your supper party — you remember ? 
only not dressed like that ; for I think she is pinching and 
saving hard on account of the boy. I assure you, Sabie is 
just as beautiful as ever — a little paler, perhaps ; and you 
remember the splendid hair, and the sweet mouth, and the 
way she walked, as if all the world were hers. You can’t 
throw that off in a minute ; and now, when you find her in 
a good humor, and laughing, and playing with the boy — 
well, it’s just beautiful to look at! I do wish j^ou could 
see her !’ ’ 

But here again Janie stopped suddenly, conscious of in- 
discretion. He sat silent for a second or two ; then he said 
(not noticing the familiarity) : 

“I will tell you the truth, Janie. I went away to 
America hoping to forget a good deal. Yes, I thought 
that was natural. I had no complaint to make; I had no 
bitter memories to carry with me; no, it was rather many, 
many kindnesses that I had to remember, if I remem- 
bered anything; but at all events I expected to forget what 
I wanted to forget ; and if anybody had said to me that I 
should come back married, I should have answered that 
I did not think so, but that it was not in the least impos- 
sible. I have been away about two years and a half. It 
is not a very long time, perhaps, but I have had the chance 
of seeing a great many people, and I have had long spells 
of solitude and reflection. Well, I am more than ever con- 
vinced that there is but the one woman in th<? world for 
me— -no, stop a moment,” he said, calmly, for he could not 
but see that her eyes had flashed with pride and pleasure; 
“ don’t imagine I am going to rush in the moment there is 
no longer any obstacle, and ask her to marry me. I don’t 


m 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


ihink 1 ever did actually ask her to marry me, though, I 
suppose, she guessed. No; what I say is, there is now, 
and must always be for me, but the one woman in the 
world, only it is for her to choose what relationship should 
exist between us, and I will abide by that. If she would 
rather be my sister — my companion— my friend, good; let 
it be so. But if I am to be her friend, I must claim the 
privileges of a friend ; and you seem to think she is not so 
well olf as she might be. Well, I did not spend very much 
during these two or three years in America — the Scotch 
are a penurious race, you know ; and I got through a good 
deal of work. What do you say, now ; will you find out 
how I can help her?” 

How can I?— but — but — but the first thing for you is to 
go and see her!” said Janie, rather wildly. “Mr. Lindsay, 
when Phil comes home with the parcels, will you take them 
with you, and go down to-morrow to Witstead. It would 
be an excuse. I want you to see Sabie!” 

“No,” he said, slowl^^ “Not yet. I must think over 
how I am to meet her.” 

At this moment Janie’s husband was heard at the front 
door, and presently entered with his bundles of toys. After 
a few words he carried Lindsay off to his studio, no doubt 
anxious for a little encouragement; and so Janie was left 
alone in the front part of the house. Her brain was in a 
whirl. She was prophesying all kinds of beautiful things 
for her beloved Sabie. The rescuer had come. Andromeda 
was to have her chains dashed off at last. And again and 
again there rang through her head the lines : 

“ Sir David I.indsay ol the Mount, 

Lord Lyon King at Arms,” 

as if that heroic couplet could in any way be made to 
refer to one of the Lindsays of Carnyan, who, besides, 
was but a mere nineteenth-century landscape painter, re- 
cently come home from America with a few dollars in his 
pocket. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

NEW QUARTERS. 

“ And this is what they call the jocund morn,” Walter 
Lindsay remarked to himself, as he was leisurely dressing 
by gaslight. It was about nine o’clock.- Outside, the 
great world of I^ndon lay steeped in a heavy and slumber- 
ous fog, dense, immovable, mysterious, with here and there 
a black ghos't passing through the saffron-hued darkness. 
And yet he did not complain overmuch. There were other 
and more cheerful visions before his eyes. He was about 
to take a little run down into Surrey, just to recall what an 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


285 


English winter was like in the country ; and it was quite 
possible that he might be led into making a series of water- 
color studies— extending over several months, indeed -if 
only he could find convenient quarters. 

Nor did he at all seek to conceal from himself' that his 
main purpose in going down into the country was that he 
might, perhaps, have Sabina for neighbor. No; on the 
contrary, he strove to persuade himself that he should ap- 
proach her without any anxiety or misgiving whatever. 
Wh^ should there be any embarrassment? He would have 
nothing to do with trembling hopes and fears. It was for 
Sabina herself to decide what their relationship should be 
— of the simplest, if so she wished it. But she could 
hardly refuse him her friendship. She would not turn 
away from him without a reason. And it would be a very 
pleasant thing for him to know that this beautiful sister 
and companion— or acquaintance, even, if she preferred 
that — was not more than an hour or two’s walk away. 
Perhaps she would give him a cup of tea as he passed. 
They might meet at church of a Sunday morning, and 
stroll homeward together. He could leave little presents 
for the boy, or illustrated papers and magazines for her- 
self, or a basket of fruit, perhaps, got down from Covent 
Garden. Sister and friend, if so she wished it; he was 
content. And so he looked forward to meeting Sabina 
with ejquanimity and a light heart. 

During the morning matters outside mended somewhat; 
the fog grew gradually thinner; and by the time he issued 
forth, the sun was actually visible— appearing like a small 
Hispano-Moresque plate in an atmosphere of opaque milky- 
white. It was a long way across London to Waterloo Sta- 
tion ; when he reached that hollow-resounding place, wuth 
its cold platforms and shivering porters, there was even a 
faint suggestion of blue in the sky; he was now secure of 
a bright day for his first dip into Surrey. 

He had made up his mind that on this occasion he would 
not seek to see Sabina. He would merely have a look round 
the neighborhood, to discover whether it would suit his 
purpose. His own dim recollection of it was that it was 
pretty flat — heathy commons, ponds, scattered villages, 
and so forth. But, in any case, there Avas more variety a 
little Avay further to the south — by Box Hill and Mickle- 
ham Downs ; and then again it was atmospheric effects he 
was aiming at rather than pronounced landscape. Frosty 
moonlight nights, snow-scenes, Avan, Aviiitery sunrises, and 
the like; these were what he Avas after; he could afford, in 
this series of studies at least, to dispense Avith the conven- 
tionally picturesque. And if he did happen to meet Sa- 
bina, on this journey of exploration, of course he would 


286 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


speak to her. She would hardly be surprised. It was a 
landscape-painter’s business to be about the country in all 
seasons. He would tell her his aims. And she would un- 
derstand that his choice of this neighborhood was dictated 
chiefly by tlie fact of there being a convenient little hotel 
at Burford Bridge, which would afford him excellent head- 
quarters. 

But still— still— as the train jogged on its way through 
the wintery English landscape — with its irregular little 
fields and tall hedges, its dank raw greens and reds, its pale 
sunshine and vaporous distances — he began to be less con- 
vinced that he should meet Sabina in this easy and matter- 
of-fact fashion. There were some things he could not quite 
forget. He could not forget how, in former days, when 
Sabina made her appearance— whether at the top of the 
stairs at the Royal Academy, or alighting from her cab in 
front of his own house, or as he casually encountered her 
in Kensington High Street— there was a kind of bewilder- 
ment caused by the straightforward look of her clear, 
beautiful, bland eyes. He could not forget the glamour of 
her presence as she sat beside him at the supper-table ; the 
charm of her smile, the mystic fascination of her voice, and 
his own desperate anxiety to be kind to her and to enter- 
tain her in every possible way. Things were changed, it 
is true. Then she was the admired of all— radiant and 
beautiful and queenly ; conferring favor by the mere touch 
of her hand; bringing wuth her an atmosphere of light and 
happiness and sunshine whithersoever she Avent; now she 
was solitary, and apart from friends, and a widow. 

And then lie remembered — in these rather Avistful rever- 
ies, as he sat and looked out on the ever-changing Avintery 
landscape — that Monna Giovanna Avas a Avidow Avhen at 
last Federigo Avon her love. But then Monna Giovanna 
Avas rich, and had everything to give ; Avhereas Federigo, 
Avhen he had sacrificed his falcon for her sake, had parted 
Avith the last of his possessions. And then again he re- 
called Janie’s often-repeated saying, “There is but the one 
AA^ay of Avinning Sabie’s love, and that is through her pity.” 
He Avas in no promising case, then? In honest truth, he 
could not compassionate himself about anything. He Avas 
in the best of health, Avith the years still lying lightly on 
his shoulders; he had Avon for himself a position as an 
artist Avhich he considered quite commensurate Avith his 
merits; he Avas of good descent; he had more money than 
met his needs; he had lots of friends. He kneAv of no par- 
ticular reason Avhy he should be pitied; except, perhaps, 
that he had the misfortune to be A^ery much in love with a 
woman— and even in that direction he did not struggle 
hard Avith his fate. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


287 


“Witstead!” 

The sudden sound startled him out of these reveries, 
and involuntarily and quickly he glanced round the little 
platform. But there was no one going away by the train, 
and he was the only person who alighted; when he had 
given up his ticket and passed through the small building, 
he found himself alone, with the road lying before him to- 
ward the village. 

And here he paused, in dire uncertainty, almost in fear. 
It was one thing to think of Sabina when he was three or 
four thousand miles away ; it was another to find himself 
almost within a stone’s-throw of her, so that any moment 
he might find himself confronted by her startled eyes. If 
only he could at once go forward and take her hand and 
say, “Dear friend, don’t be alarmed. It is true I have 
come to see you — to be near you. But I will vex you with 
no importunities. You shall be my sister, if you wish it — 
my sister and friend; and I will ask you to let me see you 
occasionally, and to help you in any way that may arise.” 
But would not these very explanations be embarrassing — 
naj", impossible? And now he wished he had gone on to 
Burford Bridge, and remain there until the arrival of his 
painting-materials. He had not even a note-book and 
pencil with him to make pretense supposing he were sud- 
denly to meet Sabina, and have to tell his tale. And what 
if she were to resent his coming thus unannounced and 
uninvited? He began to think it would be better for him 
to avoid Witstead; there would be some other route by 
which he could make his way to Burford Bridge. 

And yet an overpowering fascination of curiosity drew 
him on, bit by bit, toward the village. He regarded the 
most trivial things around him with the keenest interest . 
This road, now — crisp and hard it was in the gripe of the 
frost, and the ruts made by the cart-wheels were gloaming 
white with ice— this was the road Sabina would come 
along each time she went to London. And of course she 
would be quite familiar with all these things —the wintery 
hedges, the wide stretch of common, with its patches of 
dark-green gorse, the pond now ruffled into silver by a 
slight wind from the north. And still he Avent on, Avith an 
eye cast Avell forAvard. If only he could see her cottage, 
then he Avould go aAvay content. But how was he to make 
out which of these straggling houses Avas hers? He met 
no one, and so could not ask. As he drew nearer, he could 
see two or three small children playing about ; otherwise 
the main thoroughfare seemed quite deserted; for al- 
though there Avere two heavily laden wains in front of the 
Checkers, the drivers had gone inside. Finally, after a 


288 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


moment’s hesitation, he took heart of grace, walked boldly 
forward, crossed the road, and entered the inn. 

He was received by the daughter of the house, a pretty, 
buxom, blue- eyed little wench, who seemed to regard the 
tall, bronzed, black-eyed stranger with much and evident 
favor. For not only did she politely invite him into the 
bar-parlor, but she offered him a newspaper, and poked up 
the fire for him ; and when she brought him the ale and 
biscuits and cheese he had ordered (in the meantime she 
had snatched a moment to look at her hair, and arrange 
her smart little cuffs), she seemed quite willing to wait and 
be asked questions, which she answered smilingly and 
graciously. And this led to a notable discovery. 

“Oh yes, it is a very quiet neighborhood,” she was 
saying; and then she added, with a little laugh, “But it 
wasn’t last week. You know we got our man in, sir.” 

“No, I didn’t know,” be said — though he suspected, 
from certain damaged placards he had seen, that there 
had been a county election recently. “ I have been away 
from England for two or three years, and have just come 
back.” 

“ Have you indeed, sir!” she exclaimed, as if that were a 
very remarkable occurrence. 

“And who was the lucky candidate?” he continued. 

“Sir Tyrrell Drake, sir.” 

“ Oh, really,” he said, with some surprise. “ Well, he is 
a good man.” 

“He is a very kind gentleman — he is very much liked 
about here,” she said, pleasantly. 

“ But you don’t mean that he is still at Beaver Court? I 
thought he had taken it for only a season or two, for the 
shooting.” 

“ He has bought the Court, sir. Oh yes, that was about 
eighteen months ago, I think.” 

“Really !” he said; and for a minute or two the amiable 
young lady’s volunteered information about Beaver Court 
and its connection with local politics received remarkably 
small attention. His mind was off on a rapid little trip. 
Of course Sabina would be known to the clergyman of the 
parish ; of course the clergyman would be known to the 
owner of Beaver Court, which was one of the great houses 
in the neighborhood. Lindsay had become very friendly 
with this Sir Tyrrell Drake, through meeting him at more 
than one shooting-box in Scotland, and so what more 
simple than to have conveyed to Sabina in this waj^ the 
information that he was established at Burford Bridge, and 
that there would be nothing remarkable if she should 
happen to meet him? She would be prepared. There 
>voul4 be no danger of startling her. Their friendship 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


289 


would be resumed in an easy and natural waj’’ ; it would be 
no matter for wonder if he called upon her, and took the 
little presents for the boy. 

When he had paid his shot, and was about to leave, he 
said to the gracious and friendly handmaiden : 

“ Do you happen to know a Mrs. Foster who lives about 
here?” 

‘‘Indeed I do, sir,” was the instant answer. ‘‘The poor 
dear lady is very lonely now ; she is a widow now, per- 
haps you know, sir?” 

‘‘ Yes,” he said, absently. And then he added, “Is her 
house in the village or outside?” 

” If you step into the road I will show you.” 

He followed her, and she pointpd out to him the cottage, 
which stood somewhat apart from the rest of the place, 
with a bit of ground in front, and apparently a larger 
space of garden behind. He was rather glad that he could 
go on his way without passing the cottage; but he stood 
looking at it— until, indeed, he was recalled to his senses 
by the young lady of the inn saying to him ; 

‘‘ Good-morning, sir, and thank you!” 

‘‘Oh, good-morning —and thank you very much,” he 
said— and therewith she tripped into the hostelry, with 
just one brief, swift, and perhaps casual glance from the 
doorstep at the handsome stranger, who was now walking 
briskly away southward. 

And he was well content that now he knew the actual 
and veritable house that held Sabina; and he was glad to 
be in the neighborhood; and whenever chance brought 
him that way, he would know the precise spot that his 
eyes Avould seek for. Indeed, so well satisfied was he with 
his morning’s work that, as he got further and further 
down into the country, he began to devote his mind to 
other things, and to have a look about him for possible 
subjects. To an ordinary observer there was not much 
that was promising; for although there was a perfectly 
cloudless sky overhead, and the pale December sunlight 
was flooding the land, winliery desolation was too apparent, 
the woods were leafless, the trees nearer at hand looked 
black. That is to say, to an ordinary observer, the trees 
might have looked black, but tp the trained eye of a land- 
scape painter there is nothing black in the country, except 
the rooks. As regarded these very trees, he was noting 
with delight the golden-green of their stems on the sun- 
ward side, and the beautiful deep rose-purple of their 
spreading masses of branches and twigs. Indeed for him 
there was no lack of color anywhere. There was the 
ruddy bronze of the fallen beech-leaves ; there was the dull 
yellow of the foliage of the scrub- oak; there was the 

r\ 


290 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


sparkling green of ivy and laurel, and the heavier green of 
the firs; the tall hedges were starred with the red or pur- 
ple-red berries of the hawthorn, the wild-rose, and the 
yew ; here and there the high banks were hanging with 
the silvery-gray fiuff of the wild clematis. Oh, yes, he 
should have plenty of employment. There w’ere greater 
things than these to tax his skill. The ever-changing 
heavens would present him with their slow-moving trans- 
formations, from the lonely splendor of the dawn to the 
mystery of the coming night; the snow and the frost 
would be his companions ; the moonlit woods would have 
secrets to reveal. And he was especially fortunate in this, 
that the public were very good to him, and did not grum- 
ble when he would insist on doing his work in his own 
way. He might be as patient and faithful and minute as 
he chose — or as elusive and subtle and faintly suggestive 
— and they did not complain. Doubtless they knew they 
could get chromo-lithographs elsewhere. 

When he got down to Box Hill, he first of all had a look 
round the neighborhood, and saw there what, with a little 
straining of conscience, served to confirm him in his pur- 
pose. Then he proceeded to the Burford Bridge Hotel, and 
managed to secure what seemed to him very snug and 
comfortable rooms. And finally he ascertained that Sir 
Tyrrell Drake was then living at Beaver Court, though 
they could not tell him whether Sir Tyrrell had got through 
his pheasant-shooting of the year. The fact is, Lindsay, 
though he had now to say, “ For I must to the greenwood 
go,” had no thought of going as “a banished man.” He 
expected to spend the time very pleasantly in this retreat; 
and if his work should hold him mainly bound to these 
more southern regions, still there were Sundays and other 
occasional holidays when a little trip northward would 
afford him relaxation. If only that first meeting were 
well over! In the meanwhile he walked on to Reading, 
and took train back to London, anxious to get his prepara- 
tions made as soon as possible, and himself installed in 
these new quarters. In a couple of days’ time, he thought, 
he should be established at Burford Bridge. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

TOGETHER. 

Eventually, as it proved, it was the merest chance that 
threw him in Sabina’s way. On the afternoon of his leav- 
ing London for the country, when his painting-gear had 
been packed and put on the top of a hansom, he drove to 
Victoria Station. The place was busy and thronged, for it 
wanted but two days to Christmas; and it was with an 


SABINA I^EMBRA. 


m 


idle and yet interested curiosity that he stood and watched 
the holiday-folks while the porter Avas getting doAvm his 
things from the cab. At this moment an omnibus Avas 
driven up, and about the first person to alight was a tall 
young Avoman, dressed simply in black and partially veiled, 
Avho Avas canning some parcels in her hand. Noav any 
Avoman Avho Avas 3mung and tall attracted his notice; it 
Avas a habit he had fallen into; but the moment he set eyes 
on this black-draped figure his heart jumped. Nay, as she 
stepped across the outer platform and entered the ticket- 
office his Avild conjecture became a certainty. Hoav could 
he mistake that graceful, eas^^ walk, and the unconsciously 
proud set of the head? Instantly he followed her, uncer- 
tain av hat to do or say — determined only not to let her out 
of his sight. She passed through the crowded ticket-office 
and w^ent leisurely across the platform toAvard l^e book- 
stall. He caught a side-glimpse of her face, and a thrill of 
joy and wonder, and almost of fear, flashed through his 
frame. Indeed this Avas Sabina— her very self — pale, it is 
true, but as beautiful as ever; he might have known it was 
she b}’' the luxuriant, soft, golden-brown hair that the 
small black hat and veil only served partially to conceal. 

“Mrs. Foster!” he said, rather breathlessly. 

She turned sharply and suddenly, Avith a frightened look 
on her face; but she recognized him almost at once, and 
then she gave him her hand, in a somewhat hesitating 
manner. 

“Hoav do you do?” she said. “I heard you had come 
back to England. I saw Janie this afternoon.” 

“ I — I am afraid I startled ^mu,” he said. 

“ It Avas the strange voice— that Avas all,” she answered; 
and now she Avas speaking Avith perfect self-composure. 

“ Let me carry your things for you,” he said. 

“ No, thank jmu, they are quite light; merely some little 
presents for tAvo or three children I know.” 

“ Shall I get you jmur ticket?” 

“ I have a return, thank you.” 

It seemed so extraordinary to be standing here talking 
to Sabina about these commonplace trifles, just as if he had 
bade her good-bj^e yesterday in Kensington Square. And 
after that first brief shock of surprise, she appeared to be 
quite calm and collected; it was he Avho Avas rather bewil- 
dered and breathless, and anxious to talk about a great 
many things at once. For he remembered Janie’s hint. 
The past Avas past, and there was an understood compact 
that it should lie buried and forgotten. It was the things 
of the present he had to talk about, in this interval of wait- 
ing for the train ; except, indeed, when Sabina was so kind 


m 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


as to ask him about his travels, or his intentions as 
regarded the future. 

He left her for a moment to look after his luggage; and 
then these two went down the platform together to the train 
— a strikingly handsome couple, as one or two of the by- 
standers appeared to think. The young widow was neatly 
dressed, too; Lindsay, at least, was sure that black became 
her pale complexion and her soft- braided sun -brown hair. 

They reached the carriages. 

“Good-bye,” she said, in a gentle and friendly way, and 
she held out her hand. 

“ But mayn’t I come with you?” he said, with evident 
surprise. “You go to Witstead, don’t you? Well, I am 
for Burford Bridge. It is the same train.” 

“I am going third class,” she said, simply; and then she 
added wjth a smile, “You know I have to be very econom- 
ical nowadays.” 

“You always were very economical,” he answered, 
quickly. “And I am going third-class, too. Economy! 
You don’t know what is expected of us poor artists. I am 
afraid to walk along the streets with a decent hat on my 
head.” 

“Why?” 

“ Why? In case any of the art -critics should see me.” 

He could not explain at the moment. He had to get his 
paraphernalia stowed into the farther end of a third-class 
carriage, and then he asked her to step in ; and then he 
turned to the guard, who was coming along. 

“ Look here, guard, I have a lot of breakable things here 
that I don’t want moved. I suppose you can keep the 
compartment for us?” 

A couple of half-crowns slipped into the guard’s hand 
accompanied this inquiry ; the next minute he was seated 
in the carriage, with the door locked, and he was alone 
with Sabina. In order to remove any embarrassment, he 
took up his parable again— lightly, cheerfully, discursively, 
as if talking to her were the most ordinary and natural 
thing in the world. 

“ But it isn’t because we are poor that we artists ought 
’ to practise economy; oh, no; the cry against us is that we 
are so wealthy and purse-proud and prosperous. That is 
why all English art is in its decadence. Did you know that 
English art was in its decadence?” 

“ I should not have said so — not in landscape, anyway,” 
she added, with a touch of flattery. 

“But it is. You see, art always is in its decadence, ac- 
cording to contemporary critics. Very well, then; they 
have to find a reason for it, and the reason at present is 
that in England artists are paid too well. They live in com- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


293 


fortable houses ; buy hric-a-hrac; their wives wear satins 
and silks ; therefore the pampered sons of fortune can’ t 
paint. If they cared for their art— if they cared for any- 
thing but money and profusion and display — they would 
go and live the life that Millet lived ” 

“ J. F. Millet, you mean?” she asked, though she judged 
by his manner that he was only talking to amuse her. 

“Yes. As if Millet painted well simply because he was 
a singularly unlucky man, and Avas badly treated ; or as if 
he wouldn’t have lived a very different life if he had had 
the chance. But take the other side of the question. If 
being paid for one’s work — if living in a decent house — or 
even being received at court— is destructive of the artist’s 
aims, how did Vandyke and Rubens and Velasquez manage 
to paint at all? You don’t suppose that Titian starved, or 
Raphael, or Michael Angelo. Turner did not die a pauper. 
Sir Joshua Rejmolds painted some passable things, too, 
though he did not live in a garret. Well, you know, all 
that is the Grub Street notion of the arts. And yet I am 
not sure that Grub Street has done so much, after all, 
Shakespeare didn’t live there — he bought houses and land 
and tithes. Milton didn’t live there; nor Pope, nor Dry- 
den, nor Wordsworth, nor Byron, nor Shelley, nor Scott. 
Indeed I am not so certain that our critics, who exhort us 
to live in a garret, and cultivate literature and painting on 
a little oatmeal— I am not quite certain that they live there 
themselves. On the press day at the Academy, I know I 
have seen more than one brougham drive into the court- 
yard of Burlington House. Now that’s wrong. That is 
very wrong. If a man’s work goes to the dogs when he 
gets well paid, how about a critic in a brougham? But per- 
haps they don’t think it matters much what becomes of 
criticism, and so they may have their houses in Kensing- 
ton, their boxes at the play, their fine dinner-parties, while 
we are ordered off to make Avater-color drawings at forty 
francs apiece, or else be denounced as traitors to our art, 
and hucksters and panderers to fashion. It’s a little hard, 
though, isn't it?” 

“They would be quite pleased to see you as you are 
now,” Sabina said, with a smile, “ in a third-class railway- 
carriage.” 

“ Yes,” he said. “I must manage to have it put in the 
papers— they put everything in the papers now-a-days.” 

However, there was not much of serious malice in this 
mock complaint of his; for indeed the critics had been 
very kind to liim, as far as he knew, and sometimes had 
even gone out of their way, in their usual pessimistic 
wail, to make of him an especial exception, as one whoso 
work showed undeviating high purpose, It was merely 


294 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


the first subject that had suggested itself on his getting 
into this third-class carriage ; it served its purpose of re- 
moving any restraint between Sabina and himself ; and by 
the time he had completed a whimsical contrast between 
the lot of a critic in London, living in luxury, frequenting 
his clubs, gossiping through Private Views, and perhaps 
even seated at the Royal Academy banquet, and the lot of 
a poor devil of an artist in the Canadian wilds, with half- 
frozen fingers cooking his own meals, and sleeping at night 
in a shivering tent— by the time he had put these two 
people before her, and sought to enlist her sympathy on 
behalf of one of them, they were rattling away doAvn into 
Surrey, with the dusk of the December afternoon stealing 
gradually over the land. 

In his heart he thanked Janie. It was ever so much 
more satisfactory to be talking about the merits of English 
portrait-painting than to be offering sham condolences ; and 
Sabina showed that she was not at ail shocked by his ap- 
parent callousness, for she was most friendly and pleasant 
toward him. That was until they reached Witstead ; there 
her manner changed. For now the dusk had deepened, 
and of course he said that he would get out there and es- 
cort her home — making his own way to Burford Bridge on 
foot; and he was a little surprised that she should so ear- 
nestly ask him not to think of such a thing. 

“ Oh, but I must insist,” he said. ” What, do you think 
I am going to let you walk away alone through the dark?” 

‘‘I assure you I am quite used to it,” she pleaded. 
“Please don’t let me put you about so. Do you know how 
many miles it is to Burford Bridge?” 

“Yes, I know very well. Here, guard!” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ When you get to Burford Bridge, just give those things 
to the station-master, will you, and tell him I will send for 
them this evening.” 

“ Very well, sir.” 

Of course, when she saw that he was determined, she 
forbore to protest any further, and she relinquished to him 
the parcels she was carrying ; then they set forth together 
along the desolate road and through the ever-deepening 
and darkening twilight. He did not walk fast— though 
Sabina was a notable walker, and liked brisk exercise. He 
wished this solitary way were thrice as long. And it was 
so strange to find himself alone in the world with her, as 
it were, in the silence of the night, with one or two stars 
just becoming faintly visible through the thin mist that 
lay all around them. Now and again a parcel that he car- 
ried would touch her dress. That was being close enough to 
Sabina. That was not like being some three oi* four thou- 


SABTNA ZEMBUA. 


295 


sand miles away, half- dreaming, over a camp fire, of Eng- 
land, and of a woman’s face set round about with an 
aureole of golden-brown hair, and shining with benignant 
eyes. And he wondered why Sabina had been so anxious 
that he should not walk with her from the station. Did 
she wish him not to see how small the place was in which 
she now lived? No, that was not like Sabina, who was 
simplicity itself in such matters. And as if it could matter 
to him where Sabina lived — in hovel or in palace— so long 
as she was his friend. 

“You will be distributing your presents to-morrow, I 
suppose?” he said (though the silence and the light sound 
of her foot-fall on the frosty road were delightful enough). 

“They can hardly be called presents,” she answered, 
simply. “ The fact is, Janie and her husband have sent me 
down everything that could be imagined for my own little 
boy ; and as I had to be in London, I thought I might as 
well bring some bits of things for a few of the children 
about. But why to-morrow?” 

“You will spend Christmas Day at home?” he said, at a 
venture. 

“Yes, I shall,” she said. “ButVou forget— my home is 
here.” 

“ I meant London,” he said. “I thought perhaps you 
might be going up to your friends— to the Wygrams, for 
example.” 

“No,” she said, shortly. “ I am not going anywhere at 
present. And you — where shall you be?” 

He could not help smiling — though she did not see. For 
well he recognized the old abrupt manner — the straightfor- 
ward frankness that used to startle him a little bit some- 
times. And highly pleased was he to find her placing him 
on the old friendly footing. 

“Oh, I?” he said. “Well, one or two people have been 
so kind as to take pity on a forlorn bachelor ; and I was 
thinking of going to the house where there were the most 
children— for they make the fun of Christmas ; but, do you 
know, I really think I shall stay at Burford Bridge.” 

‘ ‘ Christmas in a hotel ?’ ’ she said. “ Won’ t you find that 
very lonely?” 

“Loneliness and I have been pretty constant compan- 
ions since I left England, ” said he, “and we manage to get 
on very well together. We’re on the best of terms, and 
hardly ever tire of each other. But if I should find Bur- 
ford Bridge just a trifle too dull on Christmas Day, I may 
walk over and call on you for a quarter of an hour. You 
know I want to make the acquaintance of your little boy.” 

She answered neither yes nor no ; and it was too dark 


296 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


for him to see by her face how she took his proposal. 
Presently she said, rather slowly : 

“ I think, if I were you, I would accept one of those in- 
vitations. It hardly seems English-like to spend Christmas 
in a hotel. And there must be many of your friends de- 
lighted to welcome you after so long an absence.” 

“Oh, I think I shall keep to Burford Bridge,” he said, 
cheerfully, ” if I don’t put the good people about. I should 
be a stranger now if I went to any one’s house. I shall do 
very well by myself.” 

They were arrived at the front gate of the little cottage. 

‘‘Well, whether you go up to town or not,” she said, ” I 
wish you a Merry Christmas.” 

He took her hand. 

“I wish you a Merry Christmas, and many, many, 
many happy New Years.” 

Perhaps there was just a trace of too much earnestness 
in this speech, for she somewhat distantly said : 

‘‘Good-night. I am sure your friends must be glad to 
see you looking so well.” 

And then he shut the little gate, and also bade her good- 
night, and directly afterward was making off to the south- 
ward as fast and as joyfully as he could go — his footsteps 
sounding sharply on the hard road, a dim mist hanging all 
around, the Pleiades overhead showing merely as a small, 
faint patch of silver haze, a large planet burning more 
clearly in the south. 

Then there was dinner in the comfortable little hotel ; 
and there were big logs piled on the fire of his sitting-room ; 
and his pipe was lit ; and there were visions there— not in 
the least of a mournful character. His mind was going 
back over many things— the evenings of former years ; and 
he wondered if she sometimes recalled them too. And 
most of all he lamented that he had no keepsake or souvenir 
of those happy nights, as linking her memory of them 
with his. The only thing he possessed that was associated 
with Sabina was the chalice of rock crystal out of which 
she had sipped to please him ; and he thought he would 
have that brought down for Christmas- day — not to drink 
out of, but to grace his solitary table. If only she had 
given him some small trinket in those far-off days ! A 
rose, even, at Mrs. Mellord’s ball; he would have had the 
leaves embalmed in a small gold casket, that he could have 
attached to his watch-chain. That was the night she had 
come into the hall as if in a cloud of radiant white; that 
was the night she had gone with him into the half -lit sup- 
per-room, with its festoons and beds of roses, and had lain 
lazily back in her chair, with the one diamond in her neck- 
let flashing from time to time as she breathed. Or perhaps 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


297 


he would have been more fortunate if he had prayed for 
some token of remembrance on the evening she spent at 
his own house? She was more than kind and complacent 
that night — as they sat at table together. He remembered 
some verses of a ballad of his own country — of his own 
country, indeed: 

“ O dinna ye mind, love Gregory, 

When we sate at the wine. 

How we changed the napkins frae our necks? 

It’s no sae lang sinsyne. 

“ And yours was gude, and gude enough. 

But no sae gude as mine; 

For yours was o’ the cambrick clean, 

But mine o’ the silk sae fine. 

“ And dinna ye mind, love Gregory, 

As we twa sate at dine, 

How we changed the rings frae our fingers, ' 

And I can show thee thine?” * 

“ And yours was gude, and gude enough. 

Yet no sae gude as mine, 

For yours was o’ the red, red gold. 

But mine o’ the diamond fine.” 

Cambric or silk, gold or diamond, it would have mat- 
tered little to him what this trinket might be, if only Sa- 
bina had given it to him as a pledge of remembrance. And 
here now was Christmas come— when friendly gifts and 
souvenirs were permitted according to common custom. 
From her to him? — that was hardly to be thought of. 
From him to her? — well, that was matter for long and 
cheerful consideration, as the yellow logs and roots blazed 
up in tongues of crimson fire, and his pipe was lit again 
and again, and the slow half-hours crept on. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“o’ BYGANE DAYS AND ME.” 

Early next morning he was off and up to London ; and 
he made straight for Covent Garden, and for a florist’s 
shop there. There were two or three men about the place, 
and a young lady behind the counter; and naturally he 
turned to the young lady behind the counter, as likely to 
be more sympathetic and obliging. 

“ I want you to make me up a basket of flowers,” said 
he. 

“If you please. About what price?” said the young 
lady, with amiable eyes. 

“Ah, we’ll talk about that later on,” he answered. 
“ You see, I want it arranged according to my own fancy. 


‘298 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


I am an artist— like yourself, and this time you will let me 
have my own way about the colors.” 

“ Oh, certainly, sir— of course. Will you tell me what 
flowers you would like?” she said, politely. 

He took a chair, and sat down at the counter ; tore a 
leaf out of his pocket-book, and began to draw some lines 
with his pencil. 

” I see you have in the window all the flowers that would 
be necessary. Well, then, I want you to take a circular 
basket — a pretty big one— yes, that will do — and line it 
with green moss, leaving the moss to be the outside ring — 
so. Then comes a circle of white hj^acinths— say about 
that breadth proportionately. Then comes a circle of those 
red tulips— a single line of them. Then comes a broader 
circle of white camellias. Now for the center ; the center 
is to be entirely of heart’s- ease— nothing else. Do you um 
derstand?” 

“Oh, yes. I think it will be very pretty,”- she was good 
enough to say. 

“ I think it will.” 

And then, having given her strict injunctions about 
choosing the freshest and choicest blossoms, and about the 
careful packing of the basket, he turned to the proprietor 
of the shop. He wanted a box of fruit made up— as large 
as one could conveniently carry — the contents white grapes, 
black grapes, pineapples, and the like. Could these two 
packages be sent by a certain hour to Victoria Station? 
He would be there to receive them and pay the messen- 
ger. When all this had been satisfactorily settled, he 
bade good-morning to the pleasant-eyed young lady, got 
into the hansom again, and drove off to his studio at Hot- 
ting Hill. 

As he had left home but the previous day, there were no 
letters to be answered, nor further instructions to be given 
to his housekeeper ; his only business was to get out from 
a cabinet the rock-crystal cup which was the sole souvenir 
of a certain memorable night. And so, when he had got 
down to Victoria, and was on his journey back to Burford 
Bridge, lie was bearing with him three packages; one. a 
basket of flowers for Sabina (surely, at such a time, she 
could not refuse so simple a present?) ; the second, a box of 
fruit for the little boy (he hoped he had not erred in his 
selection— but grapes were innocent enough, anyway); and 
the third a crystal chalice, set round about with uncut 
stones, which was to adorn his Christmas dinner-table, and 
perhaps, in his solitude, act as a magic talisman to call up 
long by-gone scenes (as if it were so difficult for him to 
summon back the well-remembered evenings on which he 
and Sabina had been together!). 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


299 


However, when he got down to Burford Bridge, his con- 
science began to smite him a little. What was he in this 
part of the country for? He was a landscape-painter — with 
his work to do in the world. And if it was as yet useless 
for him to unstrap his sketching implements, at least he 
ought to be looking about the neighborhood for possible 
subjects. And so when he had obtained a snack of late 
luncheon, he went wandering carelessly out and along the 
road— over the bridge that spans the sluggish Mole. 

To tell the truth, things did not look very promising on 
this short and bleak December afternoon; but, by turning 
his back on the now westering sun, he managed to get what 
color was going. There, for example, was a strip or golden - 
yellow fence ; over that the green stems of some leafless trees ; 
and then, behind and above those trees, the dusky height of 
Box Hill, mostly of a misty indigo blue, with touches of 
russet and dark green here and there, and here and there a 
series of pinky -gray scaurs. He walked on. There was a 
suggestion in some coldly-white horses in a dank green fleld, 
with a coppery sun just sinking behind a hill— the hill in 
pale blue shadow. Again he walked on. Somehow his 
work did not seem to interest him much this afternoon. 
It was Christmas-time, after all. There was an unsettling 
sense of hope and elation in the air. He wondered if 
to-morrow would be fine and clear and bright; he was 
going to take Sabina her flowers. All over England that 
afternoon families \vere being brought together — some of 
the members from distant places enough ; the Christmas 
Schivarmerei was already being blown into flame; he 
thought of the many, many happy households. Yes; and 
of the household of the young widow, who would be soli- 
tary enough to-night in that little cottage. But to-morrow ? 
She might be kind to her one visitor? She could hardly 
refuse the flowers. 

It is a most remarkable circumstance that on this same 
afternoon, just as the gases were being lit, Santa Claus 
made his appearance in the streets of the small town of 
Dorking, in actual and bodily shape, though in a guise not 
ordinarily attributed to him. The story was told by a very 
considerable number of children, and as on the substantial 
points it was identical it may safely be credited. They 
said that as they were looking into this or that newly -lit 
shop- window, some one from behind tapped them on the 
shoulder ; and that, turning, they saw a tall man— some of 
them called him a gentleman, but that is hardly the 
phrase to apply to Santa Claus— brown-faced and black- 
eyed, who said, “Go in and buy something,” and put in 
the hand of each of them a coin. In the surprise that fol- 
lowed, the stranger vanished ; but there was the undoubted 


300 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


white thing— apparently a shilling— in the palm of their 
hand. It appeared that most of them were for going home 
to ask their people if it was real ; but that here and there a 
youngster more intrepid than the rest adventured into this 
or that shop and asked for a pennyworth of something; 
and not only came out again to show his companions] his 
purchase, but could produce an obvious and unmistakable 
elevenpence of change to convince the most hesitating 
mind. Meanwhile, what had become of Santa Claus? 
Why, he had gone into the White Horse Hotel, and was 
drinking a cup of tea in the bar, and asking the landlord 
where and when was the next meet of the fox-hounds in 
that neighborhood ; for he said he had been away from 
England for some little time,, and, now that he had come 
back, he thought there was nothing in the old country he 
could see more English-looking and picturesque and inspir- 
iting than a run with the fox-hounds on a clear December 
day. 

Lindsay’s hope for the morrow was not belied. A fairer 
Christmas dawn never widened up and over the county 
of Surrey; and already he was on the top of Box Hill, 
whither he had climbed before breakfast, despite the 
clammy and slippery and difficult chalk. The red sun rose 
behind heavy cloud-banks of saffron-brown, lying low 
along the horizon ; but over these the eastern heavens were 
of a clear and lambent lemon-yellow, paling into a pearly- 
gray. And there was a kind of rejoicing in the soul in 
looking abroad over the wide landscape, with its fields and 
hedges and farmsteads and church-spires, and here and 
there a tuft of blue smoke rising into the still air. And 
well he knew what was happening in those scattered 
country-houses, half hidden among the leafless trees. The 
children were examining with delight and aw^e the myste- 
rious fairy packages that had been left for them overnight 
at the nursery door; the young folk were careering down 
the stairs, to search the pile of cards and letters on the hall 
table; the older people were still lying half-dozing and half- 
dreaming of former days; perhaps somewhere— among the 
laurel bushes— or by the garden gate— there was a lover 
regarding a high window, and ready with a kiss to be 
thrown upw^ard from eager finger-tips. “ Wces-heil P' this 
solitary spectator could have called to the wide, awaken- 
ing land. For he was glad to be at home again, to be in 
his own country once more. 

The first train after morning church took him to Wit- 
stead ; then he walked along the hard, wintery road toward 
the village, carrying the two packages with him. He was 
hardly apprehensive as to how she should receive him. 
This was the season for the meeting of friends; it was the 


SABWa ZEMBRA. 801 

universal custom to offer little gifts at such a time ; she 
would take from him so simple a thing as a basket of 
flowers. 

He stopped at the little gate and rang the bell. The maid 
came to the door. 

“ Is Mrs. Foster at home?” he said — not anxiously. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Can I see her for a moment or two?” 

“Step inside, sir, and I’ll ask. What name, sir?” 

The next moment he had followed the little maid into 
the house, and was in Sabina’s parlor. He put the fruit 
and flowers on the table, removing the wrappers. And 
then he glanced about the place. 

It was a strange kind of drawing-room for the daughter 
of Sir Anthony Zembra to have. Doubtless there were 
many small neatnesses here and there, which he attributed 
to Sabina’s own hand, but the furniture was cheap and 
showy— the pretentious British upholsterer had been al- 
lowed to do his worst. For a moment he thought of what 
a labor of love it would be if he were to begin the con- 
struction and beautifying of the house, somewhere on 
Camden Hill, for choice, with some remote hope of her 
one day entering it as mistress. And while the builder 
was at work he would be away abroad, at Tunis, at Cairo, 
at Smyrna, ransacking the bazaars for rugs and hangings 
and tiles and brasswork and what-not for the proper deco- 
ration of her home. He knew of some sixteenth century 
silk embroideries he had seen in Venice; there was an ala- 
baster chimney-piece he had nearly brought home from 
Genoa, though it would have been something in the nat- 
ure of a white elephant 

“Please, sir,” said the little maid at the door, “missis’ 
compliments, and she will be down in a moment.” 

Then she went away, but she could only have gone into 
the neighboring apartment, for he could distinctly hear 
her humming an air that was strangely familiar to him. 
And then he remembered. Why, this was the familiar old 
air with which his mother had many and many a time 
hushed him to sleep. And where had this small maid 
picked it up? From her mistress? Had Sabina, then, 
heard some Scotch mother sing 

“ O can ye sew cushions, 

And can ye sew sheets?” 

Now that he thought of it, he was not quite sure that Janie 
had not mentioned it in one of her letters. 

The door opened, and Sabina appeared. She seemed 
pale, reserved, and serious beyond her wont; she was lead* 
ing her little boy by the hand. 


Sabina zE^wnA. 




“ You wish to see my little boy? Here he is. ’’ 

The child was chiefly occupied with a performing moil 
key in oxidized silver, one of Janie’s presents, but he came 
forward frankly enough. At the same time, and involun 
tarily, she glanced toward the table. 

“I have brought you a few flowers,” said he, lightly, 
‘‘and also some fruit for this youngster, if it is permitted 
to him. It will be better for him than sweets, anyway.” 

‘‘ Oh, thank you very much,” Sabina said, and she went 
to the table and bent down her head over the flowers. 

Lindsay drew the little fellow toward him. Who could 
doubt that these clear brown eyes were unmistakably Sa- 
bina’s eyes? 

‘‘What is your name?” 

“Harry,” the child said, still busy with the monkey. 

And Lindsay, looking at those eyes, said to himself, 
“Well, my little chap, of course you can’t know that in 
the years "to come Carnryan in Golloway will be yours. 
And you will have to grow up to be a brave man — strong 
and honorable and generous to women, and fit to be the 
owner of the old tower of Carnryan.” 

Sabina came back. 

“So you preferred to stay down in the country?” she 
said. 

“Yes.” 

“ It will be a lonely Christmas evening for you.” 

He looked up suddenly, and appealed to her eyes. Was 
she going to ask him to share her solitude, if only for the 
briefest time, say for an hour, perhaps, or a couple of 
hours, as the afternoon faded away to dusk, and the lamps 
were lit? It seemed so natural a thing. These two iso- 
lated creatures living near to each other, and this being 
Christmas-time, when people are drawn together. But she 
noticed that look, and instantly her manner became more 
reserved than ever. 

“Harry,” she said, quickly, “you have put that thing 
wrong again. Come here, and I will set it right for j'ou.” 

He knew that he had made a mistake, yet even this 
momentary slip could not account for the strange coldness 
and distance and reticence of her manner towards him 
when he began to talk to her. It was forced on him only 
too clearly that his presence was an embarrassment to her ; 
when she spoke it was in a formally reserved and courteous 
way— she who had always been so frank and direct and 
straightforward. Nevertheless, the charm of the beauti- 
ful eyes, the calm forehead, and the proud, sweet mouth— 
the serious grace and dignity of her every movement and 
look— the nameless fascination that merely being near her 
threw over him— kept him there in spite of himself j 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 803 

and also perhaps there was added some remembrance of 
Sabina’s greater kindness to him in the by-gone days. 

At length he rose to go, and she accompanied him to the 
door. Then, when she had bade him good-bye — and, in- 
deed, when he was half-way across the little patch of gar- 
den — she seemed to relent for a moment. 

“Mr. Lindsay!” she said. 

He turned. 

“ I’m afraid I did not half thank you for bringing the 
fruit to the little boy,” she said, in a hesitating way. “ I 
—I see so few visitors — don’t think me ungrateful ” 

“Oh, that is all right,” he said, good-naturedly. “Tell 
him to look alive and grow up, and I’ll buy him a pony.” 

Then he bade her farewell again, and went on his way. 
And if he was a little comforted by that brief token of com- 
punction (if so it might be considered), he was none the less 
surprised that Sabina should treat him in so cold a fashion. 
He had been scrupulous in offering her nothing but the 
merest friendship. To give her a basket of flowers on 
Christmas-day was surely no great thing. Why, she had 
been far more complacent on their coming down together 
in the train. And he could not for a moment imagine that 
Sabina’s embarrassment and reserve was owing to her hav- 
ing to receive him in that commonly furnished room. 

He walked away over the hard-frosted country and 
round by Headly Hill and Mickleham Downs; and when 
he got back to Burford Bridge, he found it was almost 
time for dinner. Then he brought forth the precious cup 
of rock-crystal and placed it among the holly-berries with 
which the good people of the inn had decorated the table. 
It looked very well there. It would give an air of rich- 
ness and magnificence to the frugal little banquet. And 
he thought that whatever became of his other valuables 
and possessions— as to which he was rather careless, for 
he had discovered in various distant lands that it was easy 
to get on without them — this treasure at least should re- 
main his. It would be to him as the golden goblet of the 
King of Tule— “ Den Becher nicht ziigleich." 

But as he sat at his solitary Christmas dinner, that 
iewel-studded talisman proved to be, as often it had proved 
oefore, an awakener of memories; and all the more he 
wondered why Sabina, who had been so gracious to him in 
former days, should be so unfriendly now. Again and 
again the lines came into his head : 

“ O dinna ye mind, love Gregory, 

When we sate at the wine, 

We changed our napkins frae our necks? 

It’s no sae lang sinsyne.” 

Surely it was not so long since then?— and about her hav* 


304 


SABINA MEMBRA. 


ing then singled him out for very especial favor, there 
could not be the slightest doubt. And if she could not 
recall those days, at least he could— to the minutest de 
tails. He could remember how, more than once, at Mrs. 
Wy gram’s, she had left the group who were surrounding 
her, and crossed the room to talk to him alone. At Mrs. 
Mellord’s ball, at the Private View of the Academy, at the 
little party in his own house, and on other occasions, she 
seemed to expect him to devote himself entirely to her— 
which undoubtedly he had done. And now her coldness of 
manner, her studied reticence, not only showed that she 
’had forgotten how in all things he had tried to please her, 
and amuse her, and entertain her, how he had paid her 
every attention that was possible in the circumstances, but 
also they seemed to say that for the future she would rather 
have none of his acquaintance. 

He was rather glad to have done with this solitary din- 
ner; and then he lit his pipe, and drew in the comfortable 
ea^ chair to that fire of briskly blazing logs. 

Forthwith (so varying are the moods of men) he began 
to denounce himself as the most ungrateful scoundrel that 
ever breathed. What ! was it the very kindness of Sabina 
toward him in the past that was to be made a weapon of 
reproach against her now? She had given him every- 
thing that the most exacting friendship could demand— so 
much so that outsiders mistook the relations between them 
altogether ; and these were his thanks ! And was it not 
natural that she should be a little embarrassed by this first 
and perhaps unexpected visit of his? She had not got ac- 
customed to the notion of his being, as it were, a next-door 
neighbor. Then she was a young widow, living alone; and 
people were always ready to talk. As for his unspoken 
suggestion that he should remain, and share her Christmas 
dinner with her, perhaps that was really of a nature to 
startle her. And clearly — when he was coming away — she 
had begun to regret her excessive reserve, and wished to 
part friends. Things had come to a strange crisis, indeed, 
if he could cherish any grudge against Sabina. 

No; he would set about his work now, and get on with 
that; and she would become familiar with the notion of his 
being in the neighborhood; and by degrees they might 
establish the coveted and beautiful relationship of old, if 
nothing more. And so he relit his pipe, and piled on more 
logs and roots ; and there grew up before his eyes a picture 
of Sabina standing on the doorstep, laughing and radiant 
and happy -eyed, while he led away the youthKil Harry 
from the garden-gate — on the back of a Shetland pony. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


305 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

NEIGHBORS. 

After that day he set resolutely to work ; and very cold 
work it was. But he had long been used to out-of-door 
exposure; he had a virile physique; and then some un- 
known friend — whose motive for withholding his name was 
beyond conjecture — had sent him a kid-leather coat, such 
as is worn in early spring by salmon-fishers in Norway, 
and there was much warpith and satisfaction in this gar- 
ment. Nor was he without occasional company . The two 
daughters of Sir Tyrrell Drake had a couple of young lady 
friends staying with them at Beaver Court ; and the whole 
four of these girls were, or professed to be, more or less of 
amateur artists, and keenly interested in painting. It was 
remarkable how often they had occasion to drive round 
by Burford Bridge; and if Mr. Lindsay was anywhere vis- 
ible, they would give the reins to the groom, and would 
come and form a semi-circle round the artist and his easel, 
devoting themselves chiefly to compliment, but sometimes 
venturing to ask how this or that was done. Lindsay was 
in nowise disconcerted by the presence of these friendly 
critics; he was too well used to the bovine gaze of gaping 
rustics; but he had to inform them that his studies were 
mostly memoranda for his own subsequent use, and not at 
all fitted to be set up as exemplars for innocent and aspir- 
ing minds. For the rest, he might have dined every night 
in the week at Beaver Court ; and once or twice he did go 
over, begging to be excused for his morning-dress ; but, for 
the most part, he liked to be alone with his sketches in 
the evenings, for there was a good deal of consideration to . 
be done in-doors. 

However, a landscape painter, no matter how busy he 
may be, has always plenty of time for thinking over 
things; and Lindsay, sitting at his easel on those chill Jan- 
uary mornings, began to wonder whether he had ever 
really understood Sabina. Perhaps the glamour of her 
appearance, her actual physical beauty, had blinded him. 

If he had been asked to name what he considered her 
most marked characteristic, he would have said an extraor- - 
dinary frank and ready generosity of disposition. But 
this &bina was cold, reticent, distrustful, embarrassed, 
and at times betraying more than a trace of nervous anxi- 
ety. Was it, then, that all women were a mystery— incon- 
sistent, perverse, whimsical, unstable as water? The sec- 
ond time that he went over to Beaver Court, he went with 
a definite purpose. “ I am going to try to find out what 
women really are,” he said to himself. But those four 


306 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


light-hearted, merry, wholesome-cheeked English girls did 
not appear to invite psychological study. Probably they 
would have called it “stuff.” They were very kind to 
him ; they played and sang for him ; he played and sang 
for them; and with the assistance of two brothers home 
from school, they had a little romp of “ SirEoger de Cover- 
ley.” One of the girls, indeed, was a tiny and winsome 
wench of seventeen or eighteen, with soft, kittenish ways, 
and large, appealing eyes. He suspected that those eyes 
knew a trifle more than they pretended to know, and that 
the owner of them, in a quiet corner, might reveal a far 
from slight acquaintance with the fine art of flirtation. 
But what of that? They were all them as school-children 
to him. They did not interest him. They were merry, 
and very good-natured, and frank ; and they plagued his 
life out to come to some approaching ball; and they 
trooped down into the study, and remained there talking 
and laughing and teasing, while he had a final cigar with 
Sir Tyrrell. Indeed, they were in every way most kind 
and friendly toward him. But they could not tell him 
anything about Sabina, who seemed to belong to a different 
world. 

On his rare visits to London he was in the habit of mak- 
ing Witstead his station, just in case he might casually 
meet her in going or coming. And at last that happened. 
He had spent the night in town, and was returning to his 
work on the following morning. He had passed through 
the little village without seeing any sign of her; and was 
walking briskly on, trying to forget the renewed disap- 
pointment, when, at some considerable distance ahead of 
him, he suddenly caught sight of her. He recognized the 
tall and graceful figure at a glance; all the more that her 
arm was uplifted and her head thrown back, for apparently 
she was gathering something from a high hedge that ended 
a coppice coming right up to tlie road. On the pathway 
was a perambulator, but the small Harry was by her side, 
kneeling at the hedge roots, and no doubt imitating his 
mother’s occupation. As he drew nearer, he heard that 
she was singing to the child; nearer still, and he could 
make out the old familiar air ; but it was very lightly and 
cheerfully that she made her complaint— 


“ The wild wind is ravin’. 

Thy minnie’s heart’s sair; 

The wild wind is ravin’, 

And ye dinna care 

if that was what she was saying to him. When Lindsay 
had got quite close to her, she did not turn to see who this 
was; she merely ceased her singing until the stranger 
should go by ; and then she continued her efforts to get at 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 307 

certain feathery sprays of the wild clematis that were just 
beyond her reach, 

“ Let me get them for you,” he said. 

She turned quickly ; was it ever to be his fate to startle 
her on their meeting? 

. “Oh, how do you, Mr. Lindsay? No, thank you, I 
think I can manage.” 

Of course he saw that she could not manage, and with- 
out further parleying he pulled down the slender branches 
for her, and she took what she wanted. Then they spoke 
a little about the weather, and the hardships of the poor. 
Then she asked him how he was getting along at Burford 
Bridge. 

“Isn’t it rather unusual for an artist to be painting out- 
of-doors in weather like this?” 

“ That makes it all the better worth doing.” 

“ Don’t your fingers get benumbed?” 

“ Sometimes I have to give up, and stamp about. But 
I can bear cold pretty well. ” 

“ Are you going to take the drawings to America when 
you have finished them all?” 

“No; T think I shall exhibit them in London.” 

“ I was told you made a great reputation in America.” 

“ They were very kind to me over there. And of course 
an artist’s work has to be shown before they can know 
anything about him. One copy of a book is just as good 
as another; but the painter has to show his own original 
work.” 

“ And you are not going back to America?” she said, 
rather absently. 

“No, I think not — not at present — I have not even 
thought of it.” 

By this time she had put the bits of holly, and the red 
berries, and the sprays of old- man’s- beard into the peram- 
bulator. 

“Come along, Harry,” she said. “You will have to 
Avalk all the way back, you see. Good-morning, Mr. Lind- 
say !” 

So she left him; and he walked on, leaden-hearted 
enough. He wished he had not seen her. Perhaps he 
ought to try to see her no more. Surely it would be better 
for him to light his pipe in front of the fire of an evening, 
and conjure up the beautiful, bland-eyed Sabina that he 
used to know, who was so frankly generous in her friend- 
liness toward himself, who was the bepetted and bepraised 
and beloved of all who knew her. This coldly reticent 
woman here bore herself with an absolutely defiant osten- 
tation of indifference. She seemed to wonder that he did 


308 


SABINA ZE3IBRA. 


not return to America. Was she anxious that he should 
return? No; she was too indifferent to be anxious. 

But as he walked up and down the room that night, or 
stood before the fire and roused the blazing roots with his 
heel, he fell to having juster and gentler thoughts of 
Sabina. 

“ There is something that I don’t understand,” he said 
to himself. ‘‘There must be some explanation of such an 
extraordinary change of manner; and until I disco vw what 
it is I am not going to quarrel with her. Nor will I allow 
her to quarrel with me. I have given her no cause of 
offense that I can think of. Whatever comes of it, I must 
see her, and insist on her speaking out, clear and plain. 
She used to be able to do that in those former days, with- 
out any pleading at all.” 

He thought over the matter for two or three days; and 
then one morning, when he rose to find a chill east wind 
(that pest of the landscape painter) filling heaven and earth 
with a barely perceptible but perfectly hopeless mist, he 
thought he might as well walk over to Witstead and have 
this matter out with Sabina. He arrived there about 
eleven o’clock. The- small maid- servant who opened the 
door looked frightened. 

“Yes, sir, missis is at home, but you can’t see her. 
There’s illness in the house.” 

“Who is ill?” he said, quickly. 

“ The little boy, sir. And it’s fever — scarlet- fever.” 

She made bold to appeal to him about her own trouble. 

“ And I’m sure, I don’t want to leave, sir,” the girl said, 
looking up to him with timid eyes. 

“ Why should you leave?” 

“ Mother wants me to. Mother’s afraid.” 

“ Why, you are not going to play the coward at such a 
time?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t want to go— missis has been so good 
to me. This is my fourth place, but I’ve never had a 
missis like her before.” 

“Well, I am going up-stairs to see her ” 

“Oh, if you please not, sir— it’s dreadfully infectious— 
I was not to allow any one to go up,” the little maid pro- 
tested. 

“Oh, nonsense,” he said, quite gently, to her. “Don’t 
be so frightened as that. I am going up to tell your mis- 
tress that you couldn’t think of leaving.” 

He went up-stairs. The carpet had been stripped froni 
the landing; his footfall sounded sharp. From the top of 
one of the doors there were suspended heavy folds of calico 
soaked in carbolic acid; he guessed that that was the 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


309 


room, and, removing the curtain an inch or two, he 
knocked lightly. In a minute or so Sabina appeared. 

She did not seem so agitated as he had expected ; per- 
haps it was the sense of danger that had strung her nerves. 
Nor did she seem surprised at finding him there ; while he, 
on his part,- did not stay to make any apology for his in- 
trusion. 

“ This is a very bad business,” he said. “ I hope it will 
turn out to be a mild form of the fever. ’ ’ 

“ The doctor seems to think that likely,” she said, with 
apparent calmness. “ There have been two or three cases 
in the neighborhood, and none of them of the most serious 
kind.” 

“Oh, then you may fairly hope for the best,” he said. 
“ But it will be a terrible imprisonment for you.” 

“ I shall not grudge it. My boy will have a faithful 
nurse, I think. And very glad I am now that I served six 
months in the hospital ; I should be terrified if I did not 
know exactly what to do; I should be afraid of making 
some dreadful mistake.” 

“ I wish you could suggest some way in which I could be 
of assistance to you,” he said. 

“ Would you mind sending a note to Janie, and explain- 
ing to her why I cannot write to her?” 

“Oh yes,” he said, very eagerly — and very much re- 
joiced to have Sabina talking to him in this simple, frank, 
direct way. ‘ ‘ I will do so at once. But I mean that you 
must promise to consider me entirely at your service— at 
any hour— for any length of time ” 

“Thank you, I think we shall do very well,” Sabina 
said ; but then she added, ‘ ‘ unless the little girl Elizabeth 
were to leave. Then — I — should be rather helpless.” 

Even in the dusk behind those heavy folds he could see 
the quick nervous tremor that passed across her lips. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said, cheerfully; “that’s all 
right. You needn’t bother about that. The little girl isn’t 
going to leave; but if she wishes to leave, there’s no harm 
done. You see, I am on my way to London just now; 
and in the afternoon I am going to bring my housekeeper 
down. She will be no inconvenience to you — she will get 
a bed over the way at the Checkers. Then in the day-time 
she will come over here and look after things ; or if the 
girl chooses to go, then she will step into her place. It is 
the simplest matter in the world.” 

“You are very kind,” Sabina said, in rather a low 
voice. 

‘ ‘ Then as to yourself. Of course you cannot be the sole 
nurse — unless you want to knock yourself up at the very 
outset. As soon as I get up to London I will go to one of 


SABINA P^EMBRA. 


mo 

those institutions and send down a trained nurse. I dare 
say she might be down to-night.” 

“Oh, no, pray don’t!” she said. “Indeed, I can do the 
nursing myself ” 

“ Day and night? — why, it is impossible!” he exclaimed. 

“I have a great deal of endurance. And then the ex- 
pense of having one of those trained nurses, perhaps for a 
long time, would be so great — really, I can get on by my- 
self.” 

He had foreseen this question of expenditure. 

“ As to the cost of having a trained nurse down, or any 
other cost that may be necessary, you will have nothing to 
do with that. That is my affair ” 

“Mr. Lindsay ’’she was going to protest; but he 

stopped her, with a gentleness that was firm as well. 

“ Do you think you have any right to utter a word of 
objection? You have no right. The care you have for 
your child must keep you silent. Besides, I claim the 

P rivilege from our old standing friendship. You have not 
een so friendly with me of late — I do not know why. I 
came over this morning to ask; I thought if there was a 
misunderstanding it might be removed. But all that is 
nothing now. It does not need to be spoken of. No; I 
claim from past days the right to act as your friend ; and 
you will not object to anything I do — you cannot object if 
you think why it is done.” 

Her eyelids had been growing moist; two great tears 
rolled down her cheeks. She quickly brushed them aside. 

“ How many rooms have you in there — one or two?” he 
asked. 

She could not answer for a moment ; then she said : 

“ One room, and a dressing-room. It is very convenient. 
I can shut the door behind me when I come out like this.” 

“ Then the dressing-room will do for the nurse. Well, I 
must be off now ; I will see you again in the evening. And 
don’t you think of making one word more of protest; and 
don’t have any anxiety — the house will be managed for 
you all right. There’s another thing: mind you keep your- 
self up; eat and drink well, for that is the best safeguard 
against catching infection. And fancy what the outlook 
for your little boy would be if you fell ill yourself. Well, 
good-bye just now!” 

She called him back, and he pretended not to see that 
she was struggling with an emotion which she could not 
conceal. 

“ I— I must not offer you my hand,” she said, in rather 
a shaky voice, “ and— and I cannot tell you how I thank 
you; but some day I will ” 


SABINA ZEMBEA, 


311 


“Oh, it is nothing! we are neighbors, you know,” he 
said lightly, and away he went. 

He strode rapidl.y off to the rail way -station, armed with 
these self-imposed duties, and glad enough to be able to do 
so much for Sabina. Nay, he Avould have gone rejoicing 
“as a strong man to run a race,” but for recurring 
thoughts of the sick little lad lying in that lonely chamber; 
well, what could be done for him should. 

Arrived in London, he forthwith arranged about the 
trained nurse being sent doAvn that evening; then he drove 
out to Notting Hill and told his housekeeper what he 
wanted of her, and gave her all the necessary instructions; 
and then he went along to Janie, Avith his brief and troubled 
story. 

“And I want you to do me a good turn,” he said to her. 
“I think you told me that Sabina took no wine — for ecoii 
omy’s sake, I suppose. Noav she must. But she Avon’t take 
it if it isn’t there; I mean she Avon’t send for it. Well, I 
have a hansom outside; Avill you drive along with me to my 
Avine-merchant’s, and yourself order some Avines, and give 
her address, and Avrite a note in the office telling her that 
they are a New Year’s present, or something of the sort, 
and insisting on her using the AAune, if she means to keep 
AY ell during this trouble? Of course it Avill go doAvn to my 
account.” 

“ To your account? But ay hat AYould Phil say if he heard 
of such a thing?” Janie exclaimed. 

“ He need not hear of such a thing,” said the tempter. 

“ Oh, yes, I should have to tell him,” the honest Janie re- 
joined. “However, Sabie must not be allowed to suffer. I 
AYill tell you Avhat I ayIII do, I Avill go along and order the 
Avine, and send it to her and ay rite to her, and then you and 
Phil can fight as to Avho is to pay for it.” 

“Excellent, most excellent! Come along!” he said at 
once. And they Avent out, and he put her into the hansom 
and drove off toward Piccadilly. 

In the wine-merchant’s office Janie’s choosing was pretty 
much of a farce; and at last she protested. 

“Mr. Lindsay, if you order such expensive Avines, Sabie 
AYill knoAV quite well that it Avasn’t I ay ho sent them.” 

“How AYill she knovY? By the quality of them? Not 
likely; she is a Avoman.” 

“Then if she doesn’t know the quality, why send her 
such Avines?” Janie asked. 

“Because I don’t want her poisoned.” 

This business over, he got a four-wheeler to convey Janie 
home, reserving the hansom to take him down to Victoria. 

“Remember,” he said, that though she may not Avrite to 
you, you may write as much as you like to her. And you. 


312 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


may send her magazines and illustrated things, and so 
forth, if you have them to spare; but I will care that she 
has plenty of these.” 

“If Sabie only knew,” said Janie, looking at him with 
kind eyes, “ she has one good friend.” 

“Only one?” he said, with a smile. “ I thought you had 
a little liking for her. Well, never mind. By the way, if 
you do go and tell this story about the wine to Master 
Phil, just ask him to mind his own business. I won’t be 
interfered with. Good-bye!” 

“ Good-bye! Give my love to Sabie, and say I shall be 
down -to see her in a day or two.” 

So she drove away; and he made forthwith for Victoria 
Station, not ill- satisfied so far with his day’s work. 

CHAPTER XL. 

IN TIME OF NEED. 

All was going well, and it was with a cheerful equanim- 
ity he set about making matters as easy as might be for 
the anxious mother. From the very outset he had pre- 
sumed to exercise a certain authority over her ; he found 
he could get along better that way ; he did as he chose, 
Avithout waiting for her permission. One afternoon she 
said to him : 

“Mr. Lindsay, do you think you could get a man from 
the village— I mean, do you think it would be fair to ask 
any one to come into the room?” 

“ To do what?” he said. 

“ I can’t help thinking that one of the windows is not 
quite close up at the top, and I am afraid of the smallest 
draught. Both the nurse and I have tried to move the top 
sash, but we can’t. Would it be fair to ask a man from 
the village to try?” 

For answer he pushed aside the heavy and saturated 
curtains, and went by her into the sick-room. 

“ Which one is it?” he asked. 

She protested ; but he took no heed of her protest. 

“ I am not going anj^ where where there are children,” he 
said, briefiy. ' 

“ But yourself?” 

“ I am not much afraid of that. Which sash is it?” 

She showed him.; and with little trouble the window was 
securely jammed up and fastened. 

Then he had to dismiss the small servant-maid Elizabeth. 
Her mother came bothering about the place, with idiotic 
precautions and whining fears ; at last he told her to take 
her daughter away with her. Then he installed his own 
housekeeper, who forthwith got down from London a rela- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


313 


tive of hers to help her with the cooking. These disposi- 
tions being made, there remained for him only to cudgel his 
brains as to what he could send for to solace Sabina’s im- 
prisonment-books, magazines, reading-lamps, fruit, flow- 
ers, big flasks of eau-de-cologne — everything he could 
think of, and everything of the best. He had no need^ to 
fear the ingratitude shown by the Lady Greensleeves to 
her lover. He asked only for friendship ; and he got it. 
When a summons brought Sabina to the door, and wlien 
she pulled aside the curtains a little way, her face would 
light up when she found that it was he who was on the 
landing. The embarrassed reticence that had puzzled him 
so much was almost entirely gone. She was glad to see 
him; she was very grateful for all he was doing for her; 
and she strove to show her sense of his kindness in her 
manner toward him. Nor was he ill to please — when it 
was Sabina who stood before him, talking to him, her eyes 
gentle and well-wishing as in the olden days. 

The way of his life at this time was as follows; all the 
morning and midday he was at work at Burford Bridge. 
Then, as the dusk of the afternoon came on, he would take 
the train to Witstead, and walk to Wayside Cottage, where 
he had to hear reports, open parcels," and the like. His 
recompense for that trouble was a protracted chat with 
Sabina, she standing half-hidden by the curtains, he lean- 
ing against the balustrade at the top of the stair. 

Thereafter he would set out for Burford Bridge by road. 
For about this time in the evenings there was now shining 
in the southern heavens a crescent moon, daily gaining in 
size and brilliancy, and over that there was a large silver- 
clear planet — a celestial cup and ball as it were — and he 
was contemplating a series of drawings of moonlit skies. 
He had tried one before, his method feng to have all his 
materials ready within-doors ; then to go out and get as 
accurate a mental record of appearances as he could ob- 
tain ; and then to go quickly in and place these impressions, 
as nearly as he could, on paper. The critics were facetious, 
of course ; some of them indignant. They declared that he 
made the moon ridiculously small ; that he must have been 
looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. They 
asked him where he found the little touches of yellow 
round the edges of the silver- gray clouds. They disputed 
the rainbow hues of his lunar halo. They suggested color- 
blindness when he painted a highway, on a night of full 
moon, of a purple gray with a faint russet hue interfused. 
But he did not pay much heed to these amateur observers, 
or non-observers. He was too much concerned about get- 
ting his work done; and he chose to do that in his own 
way. They might call him perverse, pig-headed, obtuse; 


314 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


they might call his drawings capricious, whimsical, mere- 
tricious; somehow he did not mind. If they did not like 
his drawings, they could leave them; they were not bound 
to buy them unless they wished. And, as a matter of fact, 
they did not buy them; but the public did, and many of 
his fellow-artists did. Now when one painter goes the 
length of buying another painter’s work — of actually buy- 
ing it — that is the extremest form of praise. 

The fever declaring itself to be of a mild form, and all 
things going on favorably, those little conversations be- 
tween Sabina and Walter Lindsay were of a quite cheerful 
cast; and she had become very frank with him— except 
now and again, when she seemed to recollect herself, and 
to throw a reserve over her manner in a way that puzzled 
him. Ordinarily, however, she was most friendly, and 
showed no hesitation about asking him to do anything for 
her ; once, indeed, she was nearly going be^^ond the bounds 
of discretion. 

“ Mr. Lindsay,” she said, recalling him as he was about 
to leave, “I forgot something. I had a letter from my 
father this morning. Would you mind sending him a note 
saying why it is I cannot answer it?” 

“Won’t that look rather odd?” he said. “I don’t sup- 
pose Sir Anthony ever heard of me.” 

“Never heard of you? Why, he has two of your land- 
scapes in the drawing-room.” 

“ And who advised him to buy them?” he asked, with a 
vague hope. 

“I wish I could say I did,” she answered, honestly, 
“but it was Lady Zembra did. And I am certain both of 
them know that you know me.” 

“ I am afraid Sir Anthony would be a little surprised to 
get such a note from me ” 

“Oh, nevermind, then,” she said, promptly; “Janie is 
coming down to-morrow— she will write for me.” 

And yet he did not refuse to do Sabina a service. 

“ If you wish, I will send him word— as from an outsider 
—that the little boy is ill, and then he will come down and 
see you himself.” 

“Papa come down here— to a house where there is 
fever?” she said, with a smile. “ It’s little you know him. 
He would think you had gone mad if you suggested such a 
thing. He would tell you that there is nothing in the 
world more wicked and' foolish than running unnecessary 
risks. Why, it was his fear of infection that made him 
turn me out of the house. And if he ivere to come down, I 
know how I should be lectured. Oh, shouldn’t I catch it! 
‘ I told you so. I warned you what would happen if you 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 315 

wouldn’t give up going to those slums. Here is your own 
child ill now !’ ” 

“ But there are no slums in Witstead?” 

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Sabina said, cheerfully. 
“It would be enough that I used to visit slums years ago. 
However, I think you are right; probably papa would be 
surprised. Janie will write when she comes to-morrow. 
And in the meantime I must consider how i am to thank 
her for sending me all that wine.” 

“ That is a simple matter, at all events.” 

“How?” 

“You have only to tell her that you have been using 
some of it. Do you know,” he continued— for it was most 
astonishing how, on one pretext or another, he would keep 
lingering on that dusky landing, while the beautiful silver 
crescent of the moon, far away in the southern skies, was 
shining for him in vain, and slowly sailing onward to the 
w^est — “ that I can never quite make out why it is that 
Janie is so impressive a person. When you come to think 
of it, there is nothing about her of the kind that ordinarily 
impresses people. She is not beautiful— the honest truth 
is that she is rather plain; she hasn’t a grand manner; 
she is neither brilliant, nor sarcastic, nor audacious, in any 
Avay whatever; she has but little in the way of flocks and 
herds— and her jewels would be despised by a grocer’s 
w'ife. She ought to be an insignificant kind of creature- 
one you would pass by without notice and forget. But she 
isn’t anything of the kind to those who know her. She is 
a very decided personality. There is some curious dis- 
tinction about her that T can’t quite make out— you say to 
3 'ourself, well this plain little woman has sometning about 
her that one is forced to admire, and almost to reverence. 
She is not like every one else ; there is a certain distinction 
and nobility about her somehow— Spenser’s ‘Regard of 
Honor and Mild Modesty ’ sometimes occurs to me— but, 
whatever it is, I know that in my little world Janie is a very 
distinct and important personality.” 

“ But isn’t it simple enough?” Sabina said, in her bland 
way. “Everyone can see that Janie is a true, honest, 
unselfish, warm-hearted woman. What more?” 

“ Oh, but you can say that about lots of women,” he 
answered in a dissatisfied kind of way, “who have any 
distinctive character at all— who don’t interest you, in 
short. No; there is something about Janie that belongs 
definitely to herself.” 

“At all events,” said Sabina, 'withasmile, “ it has not 
caused you to fall out. You are still friends, I hope?” 

Shortly after that, he w^as leisurely making his way 
south, under the clear, dark skies, along a hard and ghostly 


SABINA ZEMBBA. 


gray highway, and through an almost silent land. He 
was absently thinking of many things, and not at all paj^- 
ing the attention that was due to the soft violet hues of 
the southern heavens, and to the crescent moon that 
seemed to have a touch of gold over its silver clearness. 
And if that riddle about Janie’s distinctive character was 
still present to him, any third person could have an- 
swered it for him in a moment. Janie had many excellent 
qualities, no doubt; but that which obviously gave her 
value, and importance, and dignity in his eyes— that which 
made her lovable in a kind of way — was her devoted and 
loyal and unwavering affection for Sabina. He forgot that 
Janie was rather plain-featured when he saw her eyes 
grow kind at the very mention of Sabina’s name. 

Janie came down the next day, and was mightily aston- 
ished to find Walter Lindsay’s housekeeper in charge, 
for she had not heard of the most recent arrangements. 
Then she went up-stairs — a little tremulous, perhaps — not 
knowing how Sabina was bearing her trouble. But the 
first glance she got of her friend reassured her. 

“ Sometimes,” Sabina said, when the first inquiries were 
over— “ sometimes I almost think it is like playing at hav- 
ing illness in the house, everything is made so easy and 
pleasant for us. It is not like a sick-room at all. If I 
could only show you ” 

” Why not?” Janie said, and she made a step forward. 

Sabina held up her hand. 

“ No, I will not allow it. It is not fair to other people. 
Mr. Lindsay did come in — to shut a window for us; but 
that was none of my doing ; he did not wait for permission. 
But, really, if you saw how luxurious we are, Janie — the 
stoves we have, and screens, and reading-lamps, and toys 
lying about the bed, and little baskets of fiowers above 
the mantel-piece — you woidd saj’’ that it was nursing made 
easy. Mr. Lindsay seems to think that I am greatly to be 
pitied because I shall be shut up in these two little rooms 
for some weeks to come. It’s little he knows what some 
people have to suffer when sickness comes into their poor 
homes. But you and I know, Janie.” 

“Are you quarreling with him because he is sorry for 
you?” Janie asked, reproachfully. 

“ Quarreling? No. That is not likely. His kindness 
and thoughtfulness have just been beyond everything. 
Why, I cannot imagine how he came to think of so many 
things — what experience can he have had of what is serv- 
iceable in a sick-room? Well, no matter; all I know is that 
I shall never forget his goodness to me — never, never, 
never. ’ ’ 

‘‘That is spoken more like yourself, Sabie,” her friend 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


317 


said; and then she added, insidiously, “I suppose becomes 
OA^er from Burford Bridge now and again?” 

“Every afternoon almost, when his work is finished. 
He was here yesterday, and was speaking about you, by 
the way. He said some very pretty things about you.” 

“ Oh, well, I don’t care who knows wh^at my opinion of 
him is,” Janie made answer, boldly. 

“ Of course you don't. The two of you make a very ex- 
cellent Society for Mutual Admiration.” 

“Yes — of you.” 

The rernark was a quite innocent and unpremeditated 
one; but it seemed to startle Sabina somewhat. She in- 
stantly changed the subject. 

“ I want you to do something for me, Janie. There are 
one or two notes I must send; will you write them? Mrs. 
Reid will bring up a small table and a chair, if you ask 
her, and the writing materials. And the note that goes to 
papa must be sprinkled with carbolic acid, or he will be 
frightened out of his Avits.” 

So Janie set about her duties as amanuensis, and had no 
time to consider further Avhy it Avas that Sabina had been 
so quickly startled by an innocent mention of Walter Lind- 
say’s obvious admiration for her. 

But if, during this first fortnight, all seemed going Avell 
— if it almost “looked like playing at haAung illness” a 
time came Avhen that cheerful optimism Avas asked to 
pause and consider. SomehoAv the little boy did not re- 
cover his strength as he ought to have done. The fever 
had run its course apparently, in the most satisfactory 
Avay ; and the doctor had not discovered symptoms of any 
of the seqiieloe that frequently follow this dangerous disease ; 
but all the same, the child, instead of going forward to 
perfect health, seemed to linger. Sabina perceived this less 
than did the doctor and the nurse, or perhaps she shut her 
eyes to it; if any terrible doubts hammered for entrance 
into her mind, she held that closed against them, and bar- 
ricaded herself along Avith her dearest hopes. 

“You know,” she said, one afternoon, to Walter Lind- 
say, “ I am not in the least anxious to have the boy get- 
ting about soon. Oh no; not in the least. Of course, the 
risk of a chill must be so much greater in this cold weather. 
I haA^e always thought that the hospitals shouldn’t keep to 
their rule of sending scarlatina patients out at the end of 
five or six Aveeks, Avhen tiie Aveather is bitterly cold, or 
Avhen the patient has a delicate constitution. Oh no, I 
should not be disappointed if Harry did not get out until — 
until the fiowers came. Now is not that a poetical 
notion?” she continued, Avith real or affected cheerfulness. 
“ When the primroses and bluebells are thick in the woods. 


ms 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


and the air quite soft, then Harry will make his first ap- 
pearance out-of-doors. Poor little mite, he will have to be 
carried; you have no idea how his legs are wasted — of 
course, that is nothing unusual — oh dear, no, I have often 
seen children unable to stand when getting up from a 
fever. Yes, I suppose he will have to be carried; and I am 
going to ask a favor from you when that great day comes 
—that splendid day — I am going to ask you to lend me that 

enormous coat of yours, with the Canadian furs ” 

“ I will give it you, and gladly,” he said at once. 

“ Oh no, no, no; it is only for the first day, and we will 
wrap the dear in it ; and the nurse will carry him out to 
look at the world again, and the primroses and the woods. 
Why, wouldn’t that make a subject for a picture? — you 
might call it ‘ The sick child’s first day out of doors ’ — the 
nurse in her hospital dress, and the poor little white face 
peeping out from the furs.” 

The poor little white face, ” she repeated, absently — as if 
her eyes were turned backward, and regarding the sick- 
room behind her. ” And if you saw how thin and Avasted 
his arms are— you remember the tramway-car you brought 
him; Ave used to tie a long string to it, and point it at the 
furthest end of the room, and let him pull it across to tiie 
bedside. But he has no strength for that now — or perhaps 

it is that he does not care for it any more ” 

Tears trembled on her eyelashes ; but the moment he 
tried to comfort her Avith a few reassuring Avords she al- 
tered her tone. 

“ Oh, that is nothing unusual,” she said, quickly (as if 
she Avere eager to convince herself). “I have often seen 
children like that. It isn’t the plump children Avho are 
safest in a fever— quite the reverse. And Harry has al- 
Avays been a particularly healthy child. Of course, it Avill 
be a long time before he has quite recovered his strength, 
but I shall be satisfied Avhen I once see him out of doors, 
with some bluebells in his hand.” 

“And if you don’t object,” Lindsay said, “I think I 
should like to come along and join the little excursion.” 

But that evening he Avaited for the doctor. The doctor 
was grave and reticent ; he could not be got to say any- 
thing beyond the merest commonplaces about the little 
boy’s condition. There Avas a singular lack of vitality, he 
said; there seemed to be no fight in the constitution; the 
recovery that Avas natural in the circumstances seemed to 
drag. Was there danger? No immediate danger, he 
thought. Witli sounder sleep, and some little increase in 
his food— if only he could be persuaded to take that— they 
Avould probabl^y find him gradually emerging from this Ian- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


319 


giior and extreme prostration. In the meantime, every- 
thing that could be done was being done. 

Lindsay walked somewhat thoughtfully and slowly 
home that evening — aAvay through the wan, still, moonlit 
country. And his mind was busy, not with the coming 
years, but with the coming weeks; and there were dark 
forebodings that, do what he could, would press in upon 
liim. Once or twice he shivered slightly, as if some un- 
known terror had glided by, touching him as it went. Or 
perhaps it was only that the night was bitter cold. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A SEVERANCE. 

The child still lingered on in that condition of impassive 
languor; but Sabina maintained her defiant attitude; she 
would talk of nothing but the young spring days, and the 
warm winds, and primroses in the woods, and the welcome 
big coat heavy with its Canadian furs. Only her lips grew 
thinner and paler, and her eyes were at times haggard, as 
if with much midnight thinking. 

Once she broke down. Lindsay had been up to London, 
and had brought back with him a little toy, which he 
offered to her humbly. It was a light little thing that ran 
on wheels. 

“It is not so heavy as the tram-car,” he said. “Per- 
haps, now, if you would tie a bit of string to that, he could 
pull it across the fioor.” 

She looked at the toy in silence ; there was a slight quiv- 
ering of her lips. 

“Yes, perhaps— -perhaps,” she said, in a low voice, “but 
the thin wee arms are not very strong.” 

She suddenly looked up, in a wild, frightened way. 

“Mr. Lindsay, my boy is not going to die, is he? They 
are not going to take away my little boy from me?” 

It was a cry of anguish rather than of appeal; her nerves 
were all unstrung; and the next moment she had burst into 
a frantic fit of weeping. The curtains fell from her hands ; 
she was invisible to him ; he could only hear her sobs. And 
then there was the sound of a door opening and shutting; 
she had gone away, to her unceasing vigil, with its awful 
and growing fear. 

He sent for Janie, who came down forthwith; and he 
went to meet her at the station. When she got out of the 
railway carriage, she gave him her hand in silence; she 
was trembling like a leaf ; she could not utter a word. 

“ I have got a room for you at the Checkers,” he said. 
“It is the best the;y^ have. Of course, you won’t let her 


B20 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

know you are here; it would only madden her with 
fright.” 

“ As you think best,” was all she said. 

But as they were on their way to the village, she said to 
him: 

“If anything happens to the boy, then it’s all over with 
Sabie. He was just the world to her. If he is taken away, 
then she will give in— it will kill her.” 

‘‘Don’t say that,” he answered, gravely. “Trouble 
comes to every one; it has to be borne.” 

“ But who has had such trouble as she has had — and who 
has so little deserved it?” she said; and she was very much 
excited in her distress. “ I say it is not— it is not justice. 
Yes, plenty of people have trouble — but they are not like 
Sabie. She has just lived for others. And now her little 
boy — her one consolation in the world — Mr. Lindsay, do 
you call that justice?” 

“ Things are not at their worst yet,” he said to her. “ I 
suppose you can stay here for a day or two?” 

“Oh, yes. How could I go away until — until J knew 
that the boy was out of danger?” said Janie, bravely. 
“Phil is going to run down to-morrow to see that lam 
comfortably settled; but I am sure there is no need.” 

“As to that,” said he, “if you Avould rather have the 
room that Mrs. Eeid occupies now, I could send her to the 
Checkers to sleep. But I am afraid Sabina would get to 
know you were in the house, and it would alarm her.”. 

“No, no, the inn will do very well,” Janie said. 

“ I thought she ought to have a woman-friend near her, 
just in case anything should happen,” he continued. 
“And I am sure I shall be glad to have you here; for a 
woman’s judgment in lots of things is more delicate and 
discriminating than a man’s. What do you think, now, 
of sending word to Sir Anthony that the little boy is seri- 
ously ill — I mean, without letting Sabina know; shouldn’t 
that be done? Of course, I would do nothing of the kind 
if I thought ho would come down and alarm her in some 
stupid way.” 

Janie received the mention of Sir Anthony Zembra’s 
name with marked coldness — nay, with open scorn. 

“I wrote to him the last time I was down,” she said; 
‘ ‘ Sabie asked me to write. The letter had to be soaked 
in carbolic-acid, although it had never been in the sick- 
room at all. And do you think Sir Anthony would come 
near a house in which there was scarlet fever? Not likely. 
He has far too great a sense of his importance to the 
country. A man of such value to the nation couldn’t af 
ford to run such a risk. And society— think of the possi 


f^ABINA ZEMBRA. 


891 

bility of society losing so handsome and distinguished- 
looking an ornament. ’ ’ 

“ You are revengeful. But I really think we ought to 
send him word that the boy is seriously ill. And you must 
write the note.” 

By this time they were arrived at the inn, where Janie 
found that they had prepared a very snug little room for 
her. There was a fire burning brightly; there were some 
books and flowers on the table; this would make quite an 
excellent little sitting-room in the day-time, if she chose. 
But besides that, they had placed at her disposal a small 
inner parlor down-stairs, in which she could see any one; 
they seemed anxious to oblige this friend of the young 
mother whose trouble had awakened general sympathy. 

Janie wrote the note to Sir Anthony that afternoon; and, 
contrary to all expectation, he came down to Witstead the 
very next day. But it was neither she nor Walter Lind- 
say — it was Lindsay’s housekeeper, Mrs. Reid, who found 
at the door of the cottage this tall, handsome, fresh-com- 
plexioned, white-haired, bland-looking man. Standing a 
little bit back, he made the usual inquiries as to how the 
child was going on, and said tie was sorry to have no better 
news. Then he said : 

“ You. will tell Mrs. Fostdr that her father called ” 

“I beg your pardon, sir— her father, did you say?” Mrs. 
Reid said, in some surprise. 

“Yes.” 

“ But won’t you come in, sir?” 

“ Oh, dear, no— I suppose what you have told me is quite 
correct?” 

“ But wouldn’t you like to see the poor lady, sir?” 

“ No, no, no, no. I suppose you are not aware that she 
has brothers and sisters. She herself would be the last to 
expect that I should run the risk of carrying infection to 
members of her own family.” 

He delivered these sentences with that calm and im- 
pressive manner well known to the House of Commons, 
when, having caught Mr. Speaker’s eye, he rose to his feet, 
placed his right hand within the breast of his frock-coat, 
and, with another glance round the House, said, “Sir!” 
Naturally, this poor housekeeper was overawed ; but she 
was an elderly woman, with some experience of human 
life; and she had a bewildered, instinctive notion that a 
father would like to see his daughter— if only but to say a 
kindly word to her — in the time of her great trouble. 

“Perhaps you don’t understand, sir — the two rooms are 
quite isolated,” she said. “There are carbolic curtains 
separating them from the rest of the house. There would 
be no risk of carrying the infection.” 


SABIXA ZEMBRA. 


“ Permit me to be the best judge of that,” he observed. 

“Oh, certainly, sir,” she said, with apparent humility; 
but she was beginning to rebel a little; she was a vertebrate 
animal. 

“ And I will thank you to take my instructions. I wish 
my daughter to be informed that I called, and that I was 
sorry not to hear better news. If she wants for anything, 
I hope she will write — by a third person, mind— be particu- 
lar about that, if you please— she must write by a third 
person, as she did on the last occasoin, and I will see that 
lier wishes are attended to. Good-morning.” 

“ Good-morning, sir,” said Mrs. Reid; and for a minute 
or two she stood on the doorstep, looking, after the 
stately and handsome gentleman, wlio passed do wn through 
the little garden, and finally disappeared away along the 
road. But she did not at once go up-stairs. She had been 
interrupted in some domestic duties, and she went back 
to the kitchen to resume these; and for awhile she was 
chiefly engaged in considering what kindly little messages 
she could safely add to that which had been left with her 
to deliver. And she tliough^ that when Mr. Lindsay came 
along in the afternoon, and when she confessed what she 
had done, he would say that tliese lies were very white in- 
deed. 

So the anxious days passed. Lindsay saw little of Sabina 
now. When he rapped at the door she sent the nurse. 
She would not leave the bedside where that small life 
seemed to be flickering so feebly. The nurse said to him 
once: 

“ I wish you would speak to her, sir. She won’t take any 
rest. Sometimes she falls into a doze in her chair — for a 
few minutes ; that is all. No human being can bear up 
against that long.” 

“ Tell her I want to see her,” he said. 

In a second or two Sabina was there; he was shocked at 
the change he saw. 

“ You are acting very wrongly,” he said. “ This weak- 
ness may last for a long time — what is to become of your 
care, of your nursing, if you will take no rest?” 

“I have tried— I cannot sleep,” she said, simply. 

“No, you cannot sleep so long as you remain in that 
room. Why not lie down in the nurse’s room, when it is 
her turn to sit by him?” 

“ I cannot be away from my boy,” she said. 

Then she suddenly raised her head and fixed a strangely 
scrutinizing glance upon him, as if she would read him 
through and through. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Lindsay, is the doctor telling me the whole truth ] 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 




He is not concealing anything? What does he say to 
you?” 

Piteous and haggard as were her eyes, he felt that they 
had a certain coniinand in them. 

” You are my friend — I trust you to tell me the whole 
truth,” she said. ” You cannot refuse.” 

Weil, he did not try to shirk the responsibility. As 
nearly as he could he repeated the very phrases— incon- 
clusive as these were — which the doctor had used to him- 
self. She listened in silence, and she seemed to be weigh- 
ing every word. The pale, sad face betrayed no emotion; 
but her eyes were distant and thoughtful as she retired, 
without further questioning, into the room. 

He went over the way to the Checkers, and sent for 
Janie to come down-stairs. 

” I suppose your things are ready?” he said, referring to 
a complete change of costume she had got down from Lon- 
don, lest at any moment she might be asked to take her 
place in the sick-chamber. 

” Yes, everything,” was the instant answer. 

“ Well, there is only one thing to be done, so far as I can 
see,” he continued. “Sabina is killing herself. The 
watching and the anxiety combined are too much for her — 
you can see it in her face, in her eyes. Poor creature, it is 
no longer ‘ like playing at having illness in the house. ’ 
That was making sure too soon.” 

“ What do you want me to do?” Janie said. 

‘ ‘ I want you to go right into the room and insist on re- 
maining there; and then you must force Sabina to lie down 
from time to time and get some rest. The nurse has no 
authority over her ; you must have.” 

“ I may frighten her if I go in suddenly,” Janie said, in 
doubt. 

“ She is frightened of only one thing— she thinks of noth- 
ing else — she will hardly heed you,” he said. 

So Janie went over to the cottage, and installed herself 
in the sick-room without protest. There was little nursing 
to be done; only waiting, and waiting for what nearly 
every one in secret feared. 

One evening the doctor came down -stairs and found 
Walter Lindsay reading a book in the little parlor. He 
Avas really waiting for news. 

“Don’t you think you should send for her father?” the 
doctor said. 

Lindsay looked up quickly. 

“Then the end is near?” 

“I am afraid so,” the doctor said, speaking low so that 
no one should overhear. ‘ ‘ Never since this lingering began 
has there been any sign of a fight against it— nothing but a 


834 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


gradual losing of vitalitj'— and now the child is alive, but 
that is all you can say.” 

“But surely patients sometimes recover after they have 
got down to the lowest phase of exhaustion? Isn’t there a 
chance? If it is only weakness, there might come a turn?” 

He put these questions without much hope of an answer. 
What he was really thinking of was Sabina in her lonely 
condition, bereft of all siie cared for on earth. Nor was 
this the first time that picture had come before his mind. 
For days back dread possibilities had been ever present ; 
and in his solitary evenings, sitting before the fire and ab- 
sently looking to the future, he sometimes saw a young 
widow, in deepest mourning, enter a little churchyard. 
There was a small white gravestone there, with flowers 
around it, and, pm-haps, after the simple record of name 
and date, this inscription: ""Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind 
zuruckE The young mother kneeling — that was a pitiless 
sight — and putting further little flowers on the little grave. 

He had almost forgotten the presence of the doctor in 
the room. 

“There is no hope, then?” he said, looking up from his 
reverie. 

“One must never say that,” was the answer. “But, 
for myself, I think the end is near.” 

“ Does she know?” 

“ I imagine so, though nothing definite has been said. I 
hear she has had some violent fits of crying when she was 
by herself in the smaller room. I think she is prepared 
for the worst. Indeed, she is almost in a dazed condition, 
what with want of sleep and fatigue and dread of what 
may happen. I am glad of it. She is so worn out that 
when the end does come it will be less of a shock; her 
nerves seem to be numbed ; she goes about in a kind of 
hopeless and mechanical way— yes, I think she must 
know.” 

“ As for sending for her father, that would be no use, as 
he would not come near a house where there had been 
scarlet fever. And as for her late husband’s father, he can’t 
stir out-of-doors on account of rheumatism, or he would 
have been here ere now, he writes. But when you think 
the crisis is at hand, I will go along to the vicarage and 
ask Mr. Lulworth to come and be with her. The family 
have been very kind to her, and she has a great respect 
for the old man. Don’t you think I should do that?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“When?” 

“ As far as appearances go, I think the boy may last 
through the night.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


S25 


“ But not much longer?” said Lindsay, considerably 
startled. 

The doctor shook his head. 

” I am afraid not,” he said. 

However, it was not until late the following night that 
the end came. Janie was in the room and the clergyman; 
the nurse had retired ; her services were unavailing now; 
Walter Lindsay was below, waiting anxiously enough for 
news. Sabina would not leave the bedside; she knelt there 
motionless, voiceless, tearless, holding the small, thin hand 
in hers, her very soul hanging on that faint breathing that 
was gradually growing more and more feeble. And then 
the little life, happily without any struggle, passed quite 
quietly away, and the mother’s head fell forward on the 
bed with a dumb moan of agony. No tears came to her 
aid; she was too worn out and bewildered and stricken 
down. Consciousness seemed to have gone from her with 
that low wail of pain. Janie was at her side, and would have 
taken her away, but the next moment Sabina was erect in 
the middle of the floor, and her eyes were as one bereft of 
reason, taking no heed of those around her, and for a 
second she looked as if she were listening. Then she went 
quickly to the window and tore aside the blind. Far over- 
head the midnight skies Avere shining, the myriad stars 
Avere cold and clear. A little Avay she raised her trem- 
bling fingers as if she Avould fain reach to those distant 
plains, and then they heard the stifled and piteous cry. 

” And there is no one— no one there— to take care of my 
little boy!” 

“No one,” said the clergyman, “no one— except Christ 
the Lord.” 

And then he put his hand on her arm, and led her from 
the room. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

DARKENED DAYS. 

This should have been a wedding morning. The earth 
had donned her fairest bridal robes — the soft snow mantle 
gaining a touch of gold from the Avintry sunlight; clear 
and cloudless shone the pale blue skies; there were dia- 
monds sparkling in the hedge-rows; the vane of the church 
spire flashed a distant ray. But it Avas a black-hued little 
procession that moved slowly through the Avhite, hushed 
Avorld— out from the straggling village, along the rutted 
lane, and up to the gate of the churchyard. The neigh- 
bors Avere lingering about the porch ; when the tiny coffin 
liad been carried in, they followed, and entered the peAvs; 
no one seemed to notice that, just before the door was 


326 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


shut, two women, both dressed in deep mourning and 
closely veiled, came in last of all and took their places 
rather apart from the rest. They were in the dusk, their 
heads were bent down ; not even Walter Lindsay guessed 
that the stricken mother Avas there, come to hear those 
dreadful words of a last farewell. 

When the service Avas OA^er, and the little croAvd passed 
out again into the sunlight and the snoAV, these two re- 
mained behind for a second. 

“ Sabie— dear Sabie— come home now! You can’t hear 
it; it Avill kill you!” 

She did not ansAver ; she only shook her head. But as 
they Avent out into the Avhite churchjmrd she held Janie’s 
arm tight, for she was trembling a little. They took up 
their station a short distance from the others; the bystand- 
ers paid no heed to them ; all eyes Avere turned toAvard the 
clergjuuan and the open grave, and the small, small coffin 
covered Avith AAdiite flowers. It Avas Avhen they proceeded 
to loAver that tiny coffin into the grave that Janie foinid 
her companion Avas shaking like a leaf, so that she was 
afraid she AAmuld totter and fall; and Avhen the first sprink- 
ling of earth struck Avith its hollow and ominous sound, 
the young mother uttered a short and stifled cry, as if a 
dagger had gone through her heart. Janie had almost to 
drag her aAAmy. “My little boy!” that was all she said; 
and she spoke no more as the}^ made their Avay back to the 
village, far in advance of the others, the tAA^o black figur-es 
in that Avorld of Avhite. Arrived there, Janie took her to 
her OAvn room in the inn. Sabina Avas purposeless in a 
strange kind of AAmy; she sat doAvn at the AvindoAv Avhere 
she could see — across the dream-like Avaste of snow — the 
little church, and its AAundoAvs, and the spire, and the vane 
sending forth its steady golden ray. Then her head fell 
foi'Avard on her hands. 

A message came for Janie that Sir Anthony Zembra Avas 
beloAv and Avanted to see her. She Avent down to the small 
parlor. NeA^er in all this Avorld was there a more suave 
and distinguished-looking and perfectly appointed mourner; 
as he took off his black kid gloves, and put them on the 
table, so that he might rub his hands because of the cold, 
and as he took up his position on the hearth-rug in front of 
the fire, he seemed to say that not any one of the trials or 
duties of life could find him Avanting; put the occasion 
before him, he was there, and equal to it. 

” I heard that she Avas Avith you,” he remarked. He had 
not seen his daughter that morning— not having cared to 
go AAuth in-doors. 

” Yes,” Janie ansAA^ered. “She Avill stay here until the 
house is disinfected. My husband and Mr. Lindsay Avere 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 327 

going up to London immediately the funeral was over, to 
see about having it done at once.” 

“A most necessary measure,” Sir Anthony observed, 
with approval. “It is an imperative duty that one owes 
to the rest of the community. And I hope it will be done 
thoroughly, whether Sabina goes back to the cottage or 
not. She herself has always been to reckless in such mat- 
ters ” 

“ I did not think so at all!” Janie said, rather hotl}''; who 
was he that he should criticise Sabina’s conduct? 

“Ah, you joined with her in those foglish enterprises,” 
he said, with a superior air. 

“ My shares in them may have been foolish enough— Sa- 
bie’s never was,” said Janie, whose meek eyes were grow- 
ing indignant. “ It’s all very well for people who sit in 
their own homes, surrounded by every selfish luxury — it’s 
all very well for them to talk of foolishness when any one 
tries to do a little good in the world. Perhaps you never 
even took the trouble to go and see what it was that Sabie 
was doing.” 

“We will not discuss the question,” he said, in his grand 
manner. “ If I have offended you, I beg your pardon. I 
merely wished to express the hope that before my daugh- 
ter goes back to the cottage the most rigid precautions 
may be taken to guard against the spread of infection. 
Temerity in such matters is the worst of folly. It is not 
bravery; it is criminal heedlessness. And I think that 
even you cannot deny that Sabina has always shown her- 
self far too careless — only now she may be warned by the 
terrible consequences. ’ ’ 

“But what do you mean?” Janie said, with her face 
grown a trifie pale. ‘ ‘ That Sabie was careless about her 

boy?— that she was responsible ” Janie’s words failed 

her : her indignation was too great. But she pulled her- 
self together. “ Have you anything further to say to me. 
Sir Anthony?” she demanded, coldly. “I am going back 
to Sabie.” 

“I wish to hear what she proposes doing,” Sir Anthony 
said; “that is all.” 

“I don’t know,” was Janie’s answer. 

“ For it is quite absurd her going back to live by herself 
in that cottage, ’ ’ he continued. ‘ ‘ I suppose that at present 
it would be useless for me to see her to discuss the matter 
with her.” 

“ She won’t see anybody — she can’t,” Janie answered. 

“At all events, I should like her to know this,” Sir An- 
thony said, “ that Lady Zembm is perfectly willing that she 
should return to her own home — always, of course, on con- 
dition that she should abandon those pursuits which made 


828 


{:}ABINA ZEMBRA. 


that impossible when she used to be in London. Probably 
she has had enough of that. In the circumstances, then, 
and with the condition I name, we are quite vwilling she 
should return to her own home.” 

“ As for that,” said Janie (and there was a touch of scorn 
in her voice that might have pierced Sir Anthony’s com- 
placency, had that not been so entirely gigantic — ‘‘as for 
that, Sabie will never have to go begging for a home. 
There are plenty who would be proud to have her — proud 
and pleased. And I know that if she will come and live 
with us, neither my husband nor myself will stay to im- 
pose any condition — ho, she shall live in any way she 
pleases— and I can answer for it that her welcome will be 
none the less. ’ ’ 

“Ah!” said Sir Anthony, looking at her as if she were 
some kind of sentimental maniac. “ Well, it’s a good 
thing to have friends. But friendship is apt to get strained 
if one lives continually in the same house.” 

“Was it ever so in Kensington Square?” said Janie, 
boldly. 

He did not answer that question. 

“Common-sense,” he went on to observe, “would sug- 
gest that a single woman in her circumstances should come 
and live in her own home. At the same time, if she prefers 
her freedom — I mean, if she wishes to return to the occu- 
pations of those former days — well and good ; she will have 
her allowance as before.” 

Janie interposed quickly and with a flushed forehead. 

“ Of course, if she comes to live with us, it will be as our 
guest. That is clearly understood by all of us.” 

“Oh, then, you have put that proposal before her?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And her answer?” 

^ “It was only a suggestion — we wanted her to know that 
there was a home awaiting her — and she said nothing 
definite in reply. And at present it is useless to say any- 
, thing.” 

“At all events,” Sir Anthony said, “you are of opinion 
that she should not continue to live by herself in that cot- 
tage ? Why, good gracious, she might be murdered in 
bed; that would be a nice story to get into the papers!” 

This, indeed, was an appalling thought — that the name 
of Sir Anthony Zembra might be dragged into the public 
prints in connection with an obscure and revolting village 
tragedy ! 

“Yes, I want to get her away from here,” said Janie, 
sadly, “ but it is no use talking to her at present. I wish 
she was not going back into the cottage at all. I wish she 
would come away with us this very afternoon, as soon as 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


B29 


Phil — my husband, I mean— as soon as he comes down 
from town. That would be the best thing.” 

” Then do you return home this afternoon?” 

She glanced at him in surprise; she could hardly under- 
stand any human being putting such a question. 

“Oh no! How could I do that? How could I leave 
Sabie at such a time — alone? If she would go with us that 
would be well, but as it is, I must remain with her to see 
what she is going to do.” 

“ And when she has decided that, I hope you will let me 
know,” Sir Anthony said; and he took up his gloves. “ I 
persume, when these sanitary measures have been carried 
out, there will be no possibility of a letter conveying infec- 
tion. You might tell my daughter that Lady Zembra would 
have written to her to express her sympathy, but that she 
thought it more prudent not to open communication with 
a house in which there was fever. We have got to con- 
sult the safety of others, not our own feelings.” 

When he had delivered himself of this wise saying, Sir 
Anthony took up his hat and umbrella, again asked Janie 
to communicate with him when Sabina had come to a de- 
cision, bade her good-bye graciously, and set out for the 
station. He walked with an air of lofty satisfaction ; ho 
seemed to think that it was he who was diffusing that 
cheerful sunlight over the wide landscape. 

Those next few days at Witstead were terrible. Sabina 
had wholly given way to a dumb stupor of misery and 
hopelessness; she 'svas as one walking in the dark, seeing 
nothing of what was around her, heeding no one. She 
hardly ever spoke ; she had no wild fits of crying ; there 
was nothing but this dreadful monotony of unuttered and 
unutterable grief. Mechanically she went up every morn- 
ing to the little grave, with a poor handful of fiowers; 
sometimes she would go in the afternoon too; and always 
her dull, despairing thoughts were there. 

Janie sought in vain to distract her and arouse her. 
Sometimes she willfully inflicted pain, if but to break in 
upon this dangerous listlessness. Once she went the 
length of asking what should be done, when they could go 
into the house again, with the little boy’s toys and play- 
things. Sabina shivered, but did not answer. 

Janie went to Walter Lindsay, w^ho was pretty fre- 
quently over at Witstead hurrying on the workmen. 

“ I do everything I can to get her to talk,” said Janie, 
“ and of course she has to settle what she is going to do. 
But it is very strange. She is keeping something back 
from me. It is always, ‘Wait a little while, and I will 
tell you.’ I don’t understand it at all. Even about the 
house ; it appears it belongs to a Mr. Deane ; but she does 


330 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


not know where he is ; and when I asked her how she paid 
the rent, it was the same thing — ‘Wait a little 'while, 
Janie, and I will tell you everything. I cannot talk to 
you now, or to any one.’ But she thinks it is you who 
put the fresh flowers on the little grave every morning. 
Is it?” 

“No.” 

“ Do you know who it is, then?” 

He hesitated. 

“ Oh, well, if you must know, it is one of the Lulworth 
girls. I asked her to do it for me. I have them sent down 
from London, and she takes them up. You need not say 
aruy thing about it.” 

Janie thought she would follow her own counsel about 
that. 

“ Then what do you think she is going to do?” he asked. 

“ As likely as not, she will go back to the hospital and 
become permanent nurse,” Janie answered; but tliis was 
merely a guess of her own. “ It is dreadful to think of the 
poor, broken, wasted life. You remember what Sabie 
used to be in the old days? Well, last night I was lying 
awake, and I was wondering whether it would not be pos- 
sible for some one to take Sabie entirely away from what 
has happened during these last years — to take her away 
altogether to some other country, and teach her to forget. 
And I thought that you were the only one who cared for her 
enough, and had money to do it as well; and I saw all 
sorts of pictures of you two— walking along the Prome- 
nade Anglais at Nice, and Sabie laughing and happy 
again ” 

He turned very pale, but she did not notice ; she was in- 
tent upon her waking dreams of the previous night. 

“Yes, and I followed you to Venice — I was an invisible 
ghost attending you, and I saw Sabie feeding the pigeons 
in the square; and I saw you and her in one of the glass- 
factories over at Murano, and you were drawing her in- 
itials on a bit of paper, so that the man could copy them 
and put them on the jug he was molding for her. I avoii- 
der if such a thing ever happens in the world— for people 
to forget the years of misery they have gone through, and 
become happy again as they used to be? It seems hard, if 
it is impossible.” 

However, these were but forecasts of a vague and shad- 
owy future; and in the meantime Janie was soon to be 
startled by a definite announcement of Sabina’s plans. 
On the second evening after they had returned to Wayside 
Cottage, the fumigation and so forth all being over, these 
two were seated in the little parlor together, Janie sewing, 
Sabina pretending to read, but more often with her calm, 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 331 

sad eyes fixed wistfully on the fire before them. At length 
she took a letter from her pocket. 

' “Janie,” she said, ” a few days ago I wrote to old Mr. 
Foster down in Buckinghamshire, and this morning I re- 
ceived his answer.” 

Janie waS a little surprised to have heard nothing of this 
before, and quite simply and naturally she put out her 
hand to take the letter — for there never had been secrets 
between these two. It was hastily withdrawn, however. 

“He writes very kindly,” Sabina said, slowly, ‘‘and he 
asks me to go and live with him, though he says it’s a 
dull house. I wonder if he thinks it is gavety that I should 
prefer?” 

” And are you going?” said Janie, rather breathlessly. 

‘‘ When T have everything settled up here, yes. I think 
it is the best thing I can do.” 

‘‘ Oh, Sabie, we shall never see you at all!” Janie cried. 

“And don’t you think that would be best?” was the 
calm answer; she was staring absently into the flames. 

Janie’s eyes grew moist quickly enough. 

“After the friends that you and I have been, Sabie, it 
does seem — a little hard — that you should talk in that 
quiet way about going away from us forever.” 

“But I shall not forget,” the other said. “And soon 
after I am there I will write you a long, long letter, to ex- 
plain a number of things. I ought to tell you the whole 
story now, but I have not the courage. And I am so 
tired,” she added, wearily. 

Janie did not understand what this promise meant, and 
perhaps paid little attention to it, for she was bent on op- 
posing this decision; it seemed so dreadful that Sabina 
should withdraw herself into a seclusion so remote from 
all those who had known her. 

“ You have so many friends in London, Sabie! It was 
bad enough your coming down here; but now, when there 
is no reason in the world why 3^011 shouldn’t come and live 
with us — I wish Phil were here, and he would speak for 
himself — to think of your going away down to that place, 
to bury yourself alone, and brood over all that has hap- 
pened. Is it wise? Is it reasonable? Surely 3" 011 should 
come among your friends — I don’t mean at this precise 
moment — but by and by, when time has begun to tell a 
little. We don’t ask you to come to any gayety. It is a 
quiet house. You would have your own rooms; no one 
should disturb you when 3^011 wished to be alone.” 

For answer, Sabina took Janie’s hand and patted it a 
little. 

“You have alwa3^s been so kind to me. I never could 


332 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


understand why. But I am going down to Buckingham- 
shire, Janie,” she said. 

It was later on that same evening, in the dead silence 
that was broken only by the click of Janie’s needle, that 
Sabina looked up from her reveries and said : 

‘‘Janie, there is one thing I must do before I leave this 
place. I must say something to Mr. Lindsay of what I 
feel toward him for all his goodness to me— his generous 
goodness and thoughtfulness and kindness. I am sure I 
don’t know how I shall say it, but I must try. I cannot 
go away and leave him to think me ungrateful.” 

‘‘ That he never would think, nor any other ill of jmu, 
Sabie,” Janie said, eagerly. “But surely you are right — 
surely you can do no less; and a word from you would be 
a great deal to him,” she made bold to add. 

“ I suppose you don’t know when he will be here again?” 
was the next question. 

‘‘No; but I could send him a note,” said Janie, 
promptly. 

“ You might tell him that I was going away, and that I 
wished to say good-bye, if it would not be too much 
trouble for him to call when he was in the neighborhood.” 

Janie’s nimble brain soon fashioned forth a better 
scheme than that, though she kept it to herself. Could 
she not, on the next morning, find some pretense for slip- 
ping out and make her way south to Bur ford Bridge by 
one of the early trains? A few words with himself would 
be of greater service than any note; and was not the occa- 
sion urgent? Sabina was going away. She would be be- 
yond the influences she had known; she would forget; she 
vrould sink into apathy ; she was closing the book of her 
life. But what if, at such a juncture — and she was help- 
less and distraught and uncertain — some sudden appeal 
were made to her? It seemed dreadful to think of wed- 
dings and wedding-bells, when one had to think, too, of 
the little grave lying far away there amid the as yet un- 
melted snow; but, short of that, might not some vague 
hint be given her that, wherever her footsteps might lead 
her, there would always remain open for her the refuge of 
a strong man’s love, when time and distance had dulled 
the edge of her cruel sorrows? 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

FAREWELL WORDS. 

Yet this was a delicate and difidcult task that Janie had 
undertaken. She could not forget that on Walter Lind- 
say’s return from America he had told her plainly enough 
that any relationship between Sabina and himself should 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


be just as Sabina wished it to be, and that he would be 
content with that, nor seek for anything more. Also, in 
this latter time of trouble, his kindness toward Sabina, 
though it had been great and obvious and assiduous, had 
been rather the kindness of an affectionate brother or inti- 
mate friend assuming the right to do things for her as a 
matter of course. There had been none of the sensitive- 
ness of a lover about him. Almost there had been a trifle 
too much authority. But perhaps the occasion did not 
permit of any studious refinement of manners; and Sabina, 
at least, as Janie knew, had taken no offense. 

However, during the brief journey to Burford Bridge, the 
more Janie looked at the main object of her self-imposed 
mission, the less she liked it. She began to grow very un- 
comfortable. It was too great a responsibility. At last— 
and with a considerable sense of relief — she resolved to 
throw it over altogether; she would surely deliver Sabina’s 
message; and that, she knew, would be welcome. Accord- 
ingly, when she reached the hotel, and found that Lindsay 
had already gone off to his work, she made no scruple 
about sending for him; she guessed that he would not re- 
sent the interruption. 

In the meantime she began to look round these bachelor 
quarters with not a little curiosity. She half expected to 
nnd some portrait or photograph of Sabina— even some 
slight pencil-drawing— but there was nothing of the kind. 
Apparently he had brought down with him few things be- 
yond what he needed for his daily toil. A volume of 
“ Volkslieder ” stood at the open piano, and there were 
some loose sheets of music on the top. Hardly any books 
were about, and there were no newspapers. Two large 
portfolios in a corner no doubt contained the bulk of his 
drawings, and she did not presume to open these; but on 
the mantel-piece, above the pipes and match-boxes and 
cards of invitation, and also at the back of the piano, were 
a number of more or less rough sketches, which she pro- 
ceeeded to examine with considerable interest, for she won 
dered what he could find in such a place at such a time 
of the year. And it may be said that Janie had had long 
enough training in the art-Avorld to appreciate certain 
qualities as distinct from the mere choice of a subject. 
Incomplete as most of these drawings were, she could see 
how everywhere the painter of them showed himself easy 
master of his own method; she understood their reticence, 
their simplicity, their refinement, scornful of perversity 
or whi m or trick. For the true artist does not seek to 
astonish; his work has reserve and repose; it demands 
study, patience, companionship; it is not for those who 
choose to run as they read. The Cook’s tourist who darts 


334 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


through Venice has no time for Titian’s “ Assumption 
but probably, as he jumps into the railway-carriage, he has 
in his pocket a number of the Petit Journal pour Eire; and 
every one knows what a gay and smart piece of color is 
ordinarily to be found on the outer page of that interesting 
print. 

Janie was standing there in the room, and wishing that 
Phil would for a little while forsake his mysterious and 
allegorical virgins to paint for her a series of transcripts 
of the outer world that she could hang up in her own room 
(that he could do so, at least in a measure, she never 
doubted; for what figure-painter’s wife ever believed her 
husband incapable of painting landscape?), when Walter 
Lindsay made his appearance. 

“ Pray forgive me for disturbing you,” she said. “ But 
I have a message from Sabie.” She thought that would 
make all things smooth. 

“ Oh, but I am delighted to welcome a visitor — my first 
since I came here. Won’t you sit down? I hope the mes- 
sage is nothing serious.” 

” Oh no, not at all. She wanted me to send you a note; 
but I thought I might come along and tell you — the dis- 
tance is so short. Sabie’ s message was this— she would 
like to see you for a few minutes any time you could make 
it conveninent. The fact is, she knows how kind you have 
been to her all through this terrible trouble, and she wants 
to thank you— she wants to assure you she is not ungrate- 
ful — and so will you come and see her?” 

“ It is quite unnecessary,” he said. “If I can be of any 
service to her, I will go at once, and at a moment’s notice, 
but not for a trifle of this kind. She has other things to 
think of. Tell her the message she has sent through you 
is enough— and more than enough.” 

“ But, Mr. Lindsay, you don’t understand!” Janie cried. 
“ Sabie is going away!” 

There was a sudden lump in Janie’s throat. Almost she 
was on the point of blurting out some incoherent appeal — 
“ Mr. Lindsay, are you in love with her still?— will you 
keep Sabie from going away from all of us?” But she col- 
lected herself. She had resolved to abstain from any such 
dangerous interference. She had merely to give him Sa- 
bina’s message. 

“ Going away?” he repeated, vaguely. “ Yes, I supposed 
that would come ; and it will be better foi* her. Where is 
she going?” 

“ Away down to Buckinghamshire— to live with old Mr. 
Foster— and we shall never see her again!” Janie said. 
“Fancy her alone there, with that old man for her only 
company. Now, if she would only come to Kensington 


^ SABINA ZEMBRA. S35 

Square, where her friends could see her, and take her 
about a little, and keep her from thinking! Or if she 
would come to liv^e Avith us, that would be best of all; for 
I could look after her from morning till night ; and Phil 
Avould be (Relighted— I shouldn’t wonder if she sat to him, 
for she is so awfully good-natured ; and that would be bet- 
ter for his work than having those scraggy creatures about. 
You might come to see us then, Mr. Lindsay,” Janie added, 
looking up rather Avistfully, for she had been thinking of 
what evenings they might have together, she and Phil, and 
Sabina and Lindsay, when all this time of sorrow had gone 
by. 

” Oh, she is going down into Buckinghamshire?” he said, 
thoughtfully. “ Well, I think that is very wise. She will 
be better alone for awhile. It is too soon to think of hei* 
going among friends. When does she go?” 

‘ ‘ Almost immediately, ’ ’ said Janie, who Avas disappointed 
that he took Sabina’s departure in this matter-of-fact AA^ay. 
r. “As soon as she can leave the house in proper charge — I 

I think she is waiting to hear from some one. But she is 

\ very reserved about all her arrangements, and of course 

I one does not wish to Avorry her with questions at such a 

I time. She says she is tired. Indeed, she is quite Avorn out, 

mentally and physically; and so listless; she does not seem 
to care what happens to her.” 

” That Avill all come right,” he said; “she has a strong 
physique. Nature Avill AAmrk its OAvn cure.” 

“This is the first time she has shown any interest in 
anything outside that churchyard,” Janie said, “ I mean in 
her anxiety that you should knoAv she was grateful to you 
for all you had done for her.” 

Janie looked at him Avith almost appealing eyes. But he 
merely said : 

“Please tell her not to bother about that; I understand 
perfectly; her message through you is enough— more than 
enough.” 

“Mr. Lindsay, Avhen Sabina asks you to come and see 
her, you are not going to refuse?” 

“Oh, if you put it in tliat AA^ay, certainly not. I Avill 
come and see her, if she Avishes; I only meant that it Avas 
not Avorth while bothering about such a trifie.” 

“She does not consider it a trifle. Of course,” added 
Janie, Avith a little hesitation, “I had hoped, if you came 
along, that you AA^ould help me to persuade Sabie not to go 
aAA^ay into Buckinghamshire. It seems a pity that she 
should separate herself from her friends just Avhen she 
stands in most need of them. And she has suffered a 
great deal during these past years. I think they would be 
willing to try to make it up to her a little. It seems to me 


B36 SABINA 2EMBBA. 

tliat we might try to get her to look more like the Sable 
we used to know.” 

” Time may do that— but not any of us,” he said. 

“ Couldn’t one help,” said the faithful Janie. “But, of 
course, if it is your opinion that she should go away, there 
is no more to be said. I thought you would h^ve been the 
first to ask her to stay.” 

“I think her own instinct is right,” he said. “And it 
isn’t as if she were going away to some distant country, 
never to return. Some day you will find Sabina in Lon- 
don again, when she will be better able to face the sympa- 
thy of friends.” 

“ And will you be there, then?” 

“ Oh, most likely. Why not?” 

With a little sigh Janie rose to go. 

“ When shall I come along to see her?” he asked. 

“ Whatever time is most convenient. This evening?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well. Until then, good-bye.” 

“ Oh, but you must not go like that,” said he. “ If this 
isn’t a Scotch house, this is a Scotchman’s lodging. Let 
me see- -I can’t offer you tea or wine at this hour of the 
day— and I haven’t any confections ” 

He was looking round the room. 

“Oh, yes, this will do,’' he said, and he fetched one of 
the big portfolios and threw it open on the table. “Take 
a sketch with you. Choose one for yourself.” 

“Mr. Lindsay, I cannot, really!” Janie protested. 
“ They are too valuable.” 

“You must not leave the place empty-handed.” 

Janie hesitated. She could see that these drawings were 
much more important and finished studies than those 
lying about the room. 

“ Well, to tell you the truth,” said she, “I was wishing 
before you came in that Phil could make me some land- 
scape sketches for my own little room at home — that 
would meet one’s e^es every morning, and always with a 
fresh delight— and if I were to tell you which of all those 
beautiful things it was that chiefly provoked my envy ” 

She went to the piano and selected one of the drawings 
there. It was a simple little study of evening light, a wan 
glare in the western heavens, that repeated in a wet road; 
between, a strip of dusky hill, with a black wood at its 
base. 

“ That one!” he said. “ There is not much in that. But 
it will do to begin the little collection for your boudoir. 
Tell Master Phil to levy contributions all round, and then 
we will have a consultation some day about having them 
framed in a series.” 


&ABINA 2SE3IBRA, 


337 


He got a couple of pieces of board and made up a small 
parcel for her; and then lie accompanied her to the door, 
where, with renewed thanks to him, she left. But Janie 
would hav^e been pleased if, instead of this beautiful little 
gem of a water-color, she had taken with her some assur- 
ance or hope that that evening he was coming along to 
ask Sabina to let him provide for her, at least, a safe and 
happy home. 

It was later tlian he had intended when he reached 
Witstead, for he had walked, and there wore some twi- 
light effects that had caused him to linger by the way. 
He had convinced himself that it was without perturba- 
tion that he was about to bid farewell to Sabina. As she 
would probably be in a nervous and depressed and emo- 
tional state, it was necessary for him to have plenty of 
firmness on his side. He should make the parting easy 
for her, and would take care to cut short this formal busi- 
ness of thanksgiving. 

When he entered the room Sabina rose to receive him, 
and came forward a step or two. There were sudden tears 
in her eyes; she gave him a trembling hand; she could not 
speak. But happily Janie was there; and presently, when 
he had taken a seat, he and Janie found themselves talking 
about all kinds of indifferent things, and, among others, oi 
the little picture, for carrying off which Janie was now 
making abundant apologies. 

“ But that is one of the privileges of a painter,” he said. 
“If only his friends think the thing worth hanging up, it 
serves to recall him to their memory now and again, when 
he may be half a w’orld away. It is purchasing remem- 
brance at a cheap rate.” 

“ I don’t know about the cheapness of the rate,” said 
Janie. ” I know Phil wull be horribly angry with me for 
having robbed you of such a beautiful sketch.” 

“But sometimes one doesn’t need any such help to the 
memory,” Sabina said, in rather a low voice. 

Janie now said she would go and ask Mrs. Reid to let 
them have some tea. She did so, but she did not come 
back. She went into the dining-room, and lit a candle and 
sat down there — with her heart beating a little. 

Just as she left, a look of fright passed into Sabina’s 
eyes; but that was for the briefest second; she seemed to 
nerve herself for this interview. Why? he asked himself. 
He had no wish for any’ formal expression of thanks. 

“Mr. Lindsay,” she said, with her eyes cast down, 
“ Janie says she told you why I wanted you to come here 
this evening ” 

“And I told her how unnecessary it was,” he said, in- 
terrupting her. ‘ ‘ I see you are embarrassed at this mo- 


338 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


merit. Why should that be so? These things are better 
understood than expressed. What mortal creature could 
be so inhuman as not to do what little he could at such a 
time? It is not worth speaking about.” 

“Ah, do not say so!” she exclaimed, and for a moment 
she looked up and regarded him with her soft and gentle 
and grief-worn eyes. “I will never forget it— never- 
never— through all the years I may live — and my gratitude 
to you will be always the same, and will remain ever with 
me, even if I am not allowed to call you friend.” 

He was amazed and bewildered. 

“ Why, what do you mean?” he cried. 

“ There was something else I meant to have told you,” 
she said, Avith a tired look on her face. “ I have been try- 
ing all the afternoon to bring myself to it before going 
away. But I cannot do it. I am not very strong just 
now — and — and ” 

Her hands fell listlessly in her lap. 

‘ ‘ I am sure I would not ask you to tell me anything that 
would cause you pain, ” he said. “If I had known there 
was any possibility of such a thing, I would not have come 
here this evening.” 

“ But you Avill have to be told,” she said, with a further 
effort. “I will write. I will write to Janie. She shall 
explain to you. And I think Janie Avill forgive me, but 
you won’t. You are a man; you will take a man’s view. 
And this is all I ask of you — when you find how weak and 
foolish and wicked I have been — when you say that I am 
no longer fit to be called your friend ” 

“ I never will, so help me God!” he said; but she went 
on unheeding: 

“All I ask is this, that though we should never meet 
again in this Avorld, or, if we should meet— well, perhaps 
you would pass me by as a stranger— but what I ask is, 
that if ever you should think of me, you Avil] believe that 
I haA^e not ceased, that I neA^er aauII cease, to remember 
your goodness to me, at the darkest time of my life.” 

Her lips quiA^ered for a moment. As for him, he Avas 
stricken dumb. Some Avild fancy flashed through liis 
brain that he Avould ask her if she did not knoAv that his 
A^ery existence Avas hers, to be done Avith as she chose ; that 
faith in the beauty and nobility of her Avomanhood Avas as 
necessary to him as sunlight and the skies of heaven ; that, 
no matter Avhat sorroAvs or secret troubles might be sur- 
rounding her, he was ready to take her by the hand and 
lead her home, as sister, or friend, or Avife. But how Avas 
he to speak Avords of love, Avith the fresh-made little grave 
still present to his mind? Was that the comfort he could 


SABINA NEMBRA. , 339 

offer to the bereft mother? She was safe in the sanctity of 
her grief'—though his heart bled for her. 

“Yes,” she said, with an absent air, “I have been look- 
ing at it every way, and I am prepared for that, and 
deserve it. Yon will say that I deceived yow, and that I 
accepted all your kindness under false pretenses. Janie 
will understand a little — the terror I was in when my dar- 
ling was taken ill — how thankful I was to any one who 
would help me --I had no time to think — I cared only for 
the saving of my little boy’s life ” 

Here she broke down altogether, and quickly rose and 
Avent sobbing from the room. When she returned, a little 
time thereafter, he said : 

‘ ‘ Of course, I cannot imagine what you mean, and I 
don’t press for any explanation. I am content to wait. I 
am content to wait because I know that nothing you can 
say will alter the relations between you and me. Of that 
I am as certain as that I am here at this moment. How 
can I have anything to forgive— or to overlook, either? It 
is impossible. And supposing there was such a thing— 
which, I say again, is impossible — do you think that the 
judgment of a woman by a man is harsher than the judg- 
ment of another woman? I don’t think so. I think you 
would find a man quite as forgiving as a woman. Of 
course that is all in the air. You have no forgiveness to 
seek from me— -it is out of the question. But when you 
speak of friendship, that is different. I hope as long as 
you and I are alive, that, at least, will exist between us. 
Nothing may arise to show the measure of it ” 

“ As if you had not proved that already !” she said. 

‘ ‘ But there it is, and always will be. I pledge you my 
word — and my hand.” 

He stretched out his hand to her; she took it, and, stoop- 
ing her head, touched it with her lips. 

“God bless you for what you have done for me in my 
time of agony,” she managed to say. 

“And do not forget what I have pledged you — no mat- 
ter what you may write to Janie,” was his answer. 

Mrs. Reid came in with the tea-things, and Janie followed. 
Their talk was chiefly about Sabina’s going away, the 
journey down to Missenden, and so forth. Janie showed 
him a gold pencil which Sabina was going to give as a 
souvenir to Mrs. Reid (who had flatly refused the offer of a 
present in money, following the instructions of her master) ; 
and Lindsay, as he bade good-bye to these two friends, and 
was setting forth to return to his solitary lodging, could 
hardly help reflecting that the old Scotch housekeeper was 
to be the lucky— and probably indifferent — owner of a 
trinket which he would have valued tat a thousand pounds 


340 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

and more, if Sabina had given it to him of her own free 
accord. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A REVELATION. 

He was so preoccupied with his own thoughts on leaving 
the house that he almost ran against a m^ who came up 
to the little gate just as he was opening it. 

“Holloa, what are you doing here?” the stranger said, in 
surly and semi drunken tones. 

He did not recognize the voice. 

“ Yes, I like this! I think this is pretty cool! What are 
you coming about here for?” 

Lindsay’s first impulse was to seize the fellow by the 
neck and kick him into the middle of the road; and 
undoubtedly that Avas Avhat Avould have happened, but the 
man staggered forward a step, bringing his face more into 
the faint light sent along from a lamp at the corner. Then 
a flash of horror went through Lindsay’s frame, striking 
him motionless, stupefying him, and leaving him only with 
the instinctive determination to bar the way against this 
drunken wretch’s entrance into Sabina’s home. That was 
all he could think of; there was no time to readjust other 
matters in his own mind ; how to get this man away, 
quietly— that was the immediate thing. 

“ I should think you had a longer story to tell than I 
have,” Lindsay said, with an affectation of good humor. 
“ Come, let us go over to the Checkers and have a drink.” 

“The Checkers? Not 1. I’m a dead man.” Then he 
added, with a bit of a guttural laugh, “ But it would be 
worth a fiver to walk in, all the same. Wouldn’t old 
Mother What’s-her-name shriek? Wouldn’t her ribbons 
stand on end?” 

The case was growing desperate; for the Avomen Avithin 
might hear this talking at the gate. And if drink Avould 
not entice him aAvay, Avhat Avould? Of a sudden Lindsay 
remembered Avhat Janie had told him as to the ordinary 
motive of Foster’s visits hither. 

“What have you come back for? Money?” 

“What’s that to you?” he said, Avith a sudden return to 
his sulky manner. “ And Avhat are you doing here? 
That’s wiiat I want to knoAv.” 

“ Because, if it was money, I Avould lend you a hundred 
or two— if you knew of a good horse to back.” 

Foster hesitated. 

“ Walk down to the station with me, and we will talk it 
over,” Lindsay put in, dexterously; and then he passed 


841 


SABIXA ZEMBRA. 

out, quietly shutting the gate, and the two men set out 
along the dark road. 

“Money from you?” Foster said, with a mock assump- 
Jion of dignity. “No. I can make money for myself. 
What do you take me for? What do I want with your 
money? But I won’t bear any malice. You were a kind 
of sweetheart of my wife’s before she married, weren’t 
you? Oh, well, that’s* all right. And she’s all right. 
Caesar’s wife— above suspicion— that’s all right. But I’ll 
tell you what I’ll do for you — I’ll put you on to a real good 
thing — been a moral ever since the weights were out. I 
wonder at you. fellows who have money and get no fun for 
it. What’s yours in? Consols, I suppose. Ground-rents 
and rubbish of that kind — buried in a grave. Well, you 
give me the two hundred, three hundred, five hundred, 
what you like; and you’ll just see something on the 17th 
of March next. It’s Wednesday, the 17th of March, that’s 
got to make a man of me. I’ve been under a cloud long 
enough. I’m going to emerge then — emerge is the word — 
in splendor. Then she can make it up with Sir Anthony. 
If she doesn’t, I don’t care. I shall have made liim serve 
my turn — and he may kick up any shindy he likes— it 
won’t hurt me ” 

Lindsay let him babble on in this way almost unheeded; 
he was busy with his own rapid plans. For if only he 
could carry Foster up to London with him, there and then, 
he could get Sabina to set out forthwith for Buckingham- 
shire, where she could be safe from persecution. That she 
knew that Foster was alive he did not doubt ; clearly that 
was the story she had to tell to Janie. Of course, it was 
all a mystery to him as yet; the one definite thing before 
him was to try to give her the chance of reaching some 
haven of shelter. Nor did it occur to him that he was as- 
suming a remarkably bold and unusual responsibility 
in thus interposing to keep separate husband and wife. For 
one thing, he had had no time to reflect. It came natu- 
rally to liim to tliink of Sabina first: she was to be guarded 
whatever else happened. And, for another thing, he 
hardly considered the creature beside him to be a man at 
all— certainly not one whose wishes, projects, or affairs 
could be regarded as of any account whatever, so long, at 
least, as he could be kept out of the Avay. 

He looked at his Avatch, the clear starlight just enabling 
him to make out the time. 

“ That’s bad luck. Just missed it!” he said. 

“ Missed Avhat?” his companion said, vaguely. 

“Oh, Avell, you see, as this transaction may be a big 
thing, and as "l knoAV next to nothing of racing matters, I 
thought you might have run up to town with me, and had 


842 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


a bit of dinner somewhere, to talk it over. But wait a 
moment— I have not heard the train pass— perhaps it’s late 
—come along, we may catch it yet.” 

He did not wait for the other’s consent; and Foster’s 
mind was too concentrated on the prospect of getting this 
money to perceive that he was being hurried off to London 
in spite of himself. 

“Yes, there she comes!” Lindsay cried— having just 
caught sight of a red flare coming rapidly through the 
darkness. “ Hurry up!— we shall just do it.” 

He had but a second in which to get his tickets; then he 
noticed that as Foster quickly crossed the platform, he 
held his handkerchief to his face; the next moment these 
two were in a railway-carriage, by themselves, on their way 
to London. 

Perhaps this hurried rush had sobered Foster a little. 

“I say, what’s all this about?” he said, rather angrily, 
and as if he were awaking out of a stupor. “ What’s the 
use of going to London? I didn’t come down here to go 
right back to London — like a fool. I wanted explanations 
— oh, yes, I can tell you I mean to have matters cleared up 
now. It was all very well when T was oyer at Nice — good 
excuse getting no letters — but that won’t do now. Look 
here, what is the good of rushing away like this?” 

And then he seemed to try to pull himself together. 

“ Oh, yes. The money. That’s business. It’s business, 
if you mean business.” 

“Of course, I want to talk it over,” Lindsay said. 

‘ ‘ That’s but natural. ’ ’ 

“Don’t you expect me to blab,” Foster said, Avith a 
gleam of cunning in the bedazzled eyes. I know when I’ve 
had an extra drink. It was after the long journey, and the 
beastly cold— and some of the boys Avere about last night. 
But I don’t blab. No horse’s name will pass my lips, not 
though I Avas blind. A flne thing you Avould make of it, 
rushing into the open market, and baAvling the animal’s 
name all o\"er the place. If you Avant the thing done on the 
quiet, then you must trust to me. There’s more in it than 
you think— it’s a great game that’s being played — you stand 
in with us— you won’t regret it— casting your bread upon 
the Avaters, that’s Avhat it is ” 

The last sentence had been mumbled; then he turned 
his head to the corner, and almost directly was fast 
asleep. 

And now Lindsay had time to think of Sabina, and of 
himself, and of certain Avistful hopes that had been thus 
rudely dispelled. Many things Avere now clear enough to 
him — especially the coldness Avith Avhich she had received 
him on his first visit to Witstead. It was the sudden peril 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


m 

of her child that had startled her out of that repellent atti- 
tude; she was glad to have his help in her time of sore 
need; nor had she shown herself ungrateful. But what 
could Sabina mean by saying that, when he knew every- 
thing, he would probably consider her as no longer fit to be 
his friend— that he would pass her by as a stranger? That 
was so very likely ! Even supposing that she had lent her- 
self a party to this deception — well, doubtless she had suf- 
ficent reasons. How had he suffered by it? He had noth- 
ing to forgive. If he had known that Foster was alive, he 
would have been every whit as glad and eager to be of 
every possible service to her, for her own sake. It was not 
as her lover that he had brought down flowers for the little 
grave. It was not as her lover that he was now carry ing 
off this semi-drunken creature to London, to give her time 
to escape in^o Buckinghamshire. 

As for himself — well, that did not much matter. He had 
grown accustomed to think that life was rather a disap- 
pointing kind of thing, a useless kind of thing. But the 
meeting of the Monks of St. Giles, in the New York Hotel, 
was amusing. And some one there had told him that the 
coast of New Granada offered some striking material for the 
landscape painter. Perhaps he could get one or two com- 
panions to make a small party of exploration? Anyhow, 
a trip across the Atlantic would be a break, and the even- 
ings in the smoking-room were snug, with the humors of 
the merry bagmen, in their playing of poker, or getting up 
of raffles. 

Then he came back to his unconscious companion, and fell 
to wondering how a wretched rag of existence like this could 
hold any power of terrorism over such a woman as Sabina. 
That he had frightened her into concealing the fact of hi.s 
being alive was pretty evident; though toward what end 
Lindsay could not imagine. Sabina, who used to be so 
resolute and independent and full of a happy audacity, to 
be overmastered and subjugated by a weakling like this! 
Why, now, how easy it would be to take him up and throw 
him out of the window! Who would be any the worse? 
The world would be the gainer. Of course, they would call 
it murder; and murder is not a thing that a well-regulated 
person ought to contemplate, only whimsical fancies some- 
times come unbidden into the head. 

On the other hand, if it had not been for the stories 
Janie had told him, he could almost have felt some com- 
punction for this poor wretch, who looked so horribly ill. 
Nor was there anything in his appearance to suggest that 
he was merely suffering from the consequences of a drink- 
ing-bout. Indeed, the curiously bedazzled look of the eyes 
—which Lindsay had noticed before his companion went to 


344 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


sleep— and the pale and hollow cheeks now visible in the 
dull light of the lamp, seemed to speak rather of the use of 
some poisonous drug than of drink. In any case, Lindsay, 
who had been forming his own ^lans, as he sat and looked 
at this poor creature, did not anticipate any formidable an- 
tagonism— beyond, possibly, the ebullitions of fractious 
temper; and he was quite prepared to humor these. 

When they got to Waterloo Station, Foster woke up, 
looking dazed and stupid and helpless. Lindsay called a 
hansom. 

“ Wait a minute— I must have a B. and S.,” the former 
said. 

“ Nonsense, man— just before dinner — you will blow your 
head off!” 

“I know what’ll put me straight,” he said, as Lindsay 
followed him into the refreshment- room to keep an eye on 
him. 

“Oh, you needn’t imagine I drink. I don’t. I couldn’t 
afford it. I’ve got my living to earn — somehow. But my 
nerve isn’t what it used to be. How could you expect it? 
A run of bad luck like mine would ruin anybody’s iferve; 
because, of course, you get anxious to make the most of a 
chance when it comes in your way. Why, at the pigeon- 
shooting match at Monaco the other day, I should have 
been in third for the championship if I had only steadied 
myself with a good stiff brandy -and -soda before the last 
shot. A horrible miss — because I was in a ghastly funk, I 
suppose. Well, here’s better luck!” 

Now the effect of this drink was speedily apparent, in an 
unexpected way. He ceaseil those wandering confidences 
to one wlio was almost a stranger to him; he became quite 
watchful and wide-awake; by the time they had reached 
the Gayety restaurant, and secured a private room there, 
and when he had made a plentiful use of cold water in the 
lavatory, he appeared to have shaken off his stupefaction 
altogether. In the meantime Lindsay had withdrawn for 
a few moments to send off a couple of telqgrams— one to 
his housekeeper’s substitute at Netting HiTi; the other to 
Janie, begging her to see that Sabina set out at once for 
Buckinghamshire, and to retain Mrs. Reid at Witstead. 

“ So you have been on the Riviera?” he said to Foster, 
when he returned to the room. 

And now he perceived that Foster was regarding him 
in a scrutinizing waj' — as if, for the first time, he was 
realizing how he came to be in a restaurant in London, 
with a former rival as his host. 

“Oh yes,” he said, v/ith affected carelessness. “There 
was plenty going on there. Bteeple-chasing at Nice— pig- 
eon-shooting ” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


345 


“ And the tables at Monte Carlo?” 

” No,” Foster said, coldly. “ I am (not such an ass. Of 
course, if I had plenty of money I should enjoy an occa- 
sional plunge; but the percentage against you is a kind of 
mechanical thing that there’s no use fighting. The truth 
is, I went to Nice as a kind of business trip. There’s some 
one there who is a partner of mine— at least she’s in the 
same swim; and I had to go and see her.” 

And then he looked still more scrutinizingly at Lindsay. 

“I say, my good friend, how did you come to be at Wit- 
stead this evening?” 

“ My good friend, as you put it, that is a very odd ques- 
tion,” Lindsay observed; and he met the other's look with 
one that plainly said ” Utter a word of suspicion, and I’ll fell 
you.” It was an odd position for two men who were just 
about to sit down to dine with each other. ‘ ‘ Still, if you wish 
to know, I happened to pay an afternoon call. My head- 
quarters at present, are at Burford Bridge — I am painting 
there. I have been a good deal over at Witstead during 
this time of trouble — where one might have expected to 
find you, I think. However, you may have had your 
reasons for remaining away; but when I called on Janie 
and Mrs. Foster this afternoon, imagining that Mrs. Foster 
was a widow and not a wife — though I should have called 
in any case, and, I hope, parted good friends with her — 
still, if there was any mistake, you know where the blame 
lies.” 

He spoke very clearly: here, evidently, was a man who 
did not mean to be bullied. Foster mumbled out some- 
thing about the folly of taking a simple question seriously; 
and at this moment the waiter appeared, bringing in the 
soup. 

” Now to business,” said Foster, who apparently had be- 
come quite sober, though there was still a curious, half- 
bewildered look in his eyes. ‘‘I tell you I have a good 
thing — how much do you propose to put into it?” 

“That would depend on the inducement — and on the 
reasonable safety of it, ’ ’ was the very unsportsmanlike 
answer. 

” I don’t know what you mean by reasonable safety,” 
Foster said, peevishly. ” We’re not talking about Bank of 
England shares; we’re talking about racing. If the thing 
was an absolute certainly, where would you get the odds? 
Do you mean business or not?— or have I come away up 
here on a wild goose chase?” 

•‘I hope not; but I want to know a little more clearly 
how the land lies,” said Lindsay— who really was consider- 
ing what excuse could be made for detaining him in town, 

” I won’t tell you the name of the horse.” 


346 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


“ It would be no use to me if you did.” 

“I will tell you the race if you like— the Lincolnshire 
Handicap, 17th March— there you are; and there you will 
be, landing a pile, if you stand in with us. But we want 
the money now, when we can get good prices; and I will 
fairly tell you that the game is to be played on the princi- 
ple of no questions asked. That’s honest, now. That’s 
your risk. And I won’t promise you that, if the horse 
wins, you will be paid the odds you would find quoted in 
the market at this present moment. What would content 
you, now?” 

‘*I really don’t know,” Lindsay said, “for I am quite 
in the dark in such matters. But that would make it all 
the more simple— I mean if I went in at all, I should go 
into it as a pure gamble, and leave the whole thing to j^ou. 
If I attempted to hedge, or anything of that kind, I should 
doubtless make a complete mess of it. No, I am inclined 
to go in blindfold ; or, rather, I am inclined to let you go 
in for me. ’ ’ 

“ To what tune?” 

“ I should want a little time about that. Where could I 
see you to-morrow?” 

‘ ‘ I will call on you any hour you like. It will be two 
hundred, anyway?” 

Lindsay hesitated. He knew quite well that it was as 
likely as not he would never see a farthing of his money 
again — he had seen too often in his life the result of these 
“good things ’ ’ and “ morals. ” But it was necessary that 
the inducement hung before Foster’s eyes to keep him in 
town for perhaps several days should be sufficiently large. 
Two hundred pounds?— it seemed a pity to throw it away. 
Then he thought of Sabina, safe in the shelter of the old 
man’s house down in Buckinghamshire. And he had no 
kith or kin of his own. 

“Yes, I think I can guarantee two hundred,” he said. 
“Give me your address, and I will telegraph to you to- 
morrow when to come and see me, if you can make it con- 
venient. I suppose you will be in town all day.” 

Foster penciled his address on an envelope, and Lindsay 
put it in his pocket. For that next day, at all events, 
there was security. 

Thereafter, during the course of the little banquet, Fred 
Foster endeavored to make himself very amiable, perhaps 
out of gratitude for this promise of money. He ate next 
to nothing, and drank very little; but the little he did 
drink had an effect on him that Lindsay could not in the 
ledst understand. He relapsed into his maundering gar- 
rulity, and then grew comatose; and finally got up and 
said that as he had suffered terribly from sleeplessness of 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


‘»4T 

late, and now felt that he could drop off at once, he would 
go straight home and go to bed. Lindsay was not loath to 
see him depart; probably no two more ill-assorted com- 
rades ever sat down at one table together. And then he 
also went home. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

Lindsay did not sleep well that night ; and next morning 
he was up betimes, and off by an early train to Witstead. 
During those restless hours he had begun to doubt. Per- 
haps his interference at such a crisis was just a little 
high-handed, and might provoke resentment? Perhaps 
Sabina ought to know why he had urged her immediate 
leaving for Buckinghamshire? Indeed, there were a hun- 
dred plausible reasons why he should go down and con- 
sult Janie, and see that Sabina was got safely away. But 
he rather strove to conceal from himself the real reason, 
which Avas this: he Avished Sabina to understand that, 
despite the knowledge he had just acquired, he Avas just 
as much her faithful friend as ever. To pass her by 
without recognition? That Avas not likely. 

There was another thing which he tried to hide from 
himself, or to forget— and that Avas the tragic hopelessness 
of the Avhole situation. What Avas her future life to be? 
And his own? Perhaps there was nothing dramatically 
pathetic in his position— no definite sorrow to be met and 
conquered — no sudden blow of evil fortune to be faced. A 
gray Avaste of years makes no particular appeal to the 
human heart. And indeed, for his own part, he deliber- 
ately avoided looking at any such prospect. The immedi- 
ate details he made matters of importance, and strove to 
confine his attention to them. As soon as he knew Avhen 
Sabina could start, he Avould telegraph to the Red Lion 
Hotel, High Wj^combe, asking the landlord to have a con- 
veyance ready to take her to Missenden. And then, as 
regarded himself? Well, he Avent no further than the 
meetings of the Monks of St. Giles, in the New York Hotel. 
These were quite merry and pleasant. But his face looked 
rather pallid and Avorn as he sat in the railway- carriage 
and absently looked at the passing landscape. 

When he reached the cottage he asked for Janie; and 
presently Janie appeared, looking scared and breathless. 

“Oh, Mr. Lindsay, I have something dreadful to say to 
you,” she broke in at once, before he could make any 
excuse for his visit. “ Sabie has told me everything at 
last. After you left last night she was in a dreadful Avay 
—she Avas crying— and saying she had never received such 


FiABlNA ZEMBRA. 


kindness from any human being; as from you— and that 
you would despise her— and— and— be ashamed to think 
you had ever made her your friend. And then she told 
nie— what she had intended to tell you, but she hadn’t the 
courage ” 

“Yes,” said he, coming to her aid, for he could see how 
agitated she was, “ but don’t vex yourself about it. I 
V know the whole story. I had the honor of Mr. Fred Fos- 
I ter’s company at dinner last night.” 

* She stared at him — he seemed to take the matter so 
quietly. 

“ I met him at the gate as I was going away ” 

“We heard some people talking,” she said, breathlessly. 

“And as I thought he was drunk, I coaxed him into 
going back to London. I admit it was rather a cool thing 
to do, but I don’t see how any harm can come of it. He 
got a good dinner, and went off home a little more sober 
than when I found him — not that I say he was really 
drunk— I fancy he was as much stupefied as anything 
else.” 

“But,” said Janie, in a bewildered way— “but you are 
not angry with Sabie?” 

“Angry! On what account?” 

“ For allowing us all to think he was dead?” 

“ I suppose she had sufficient reasons.” 

“Ah, didn’t I tell her you would say that!” Janie ex- 
claimed, triumphantly. “Didn’t I say you would pass a 
charitable judgment on anything she did.” 

“ But I do not wish to judge her at all,” he said, calmly. 

“And you don’t want to be told why it was that Sabie 
allowed such a thing?” 

“I certainly don’t ask to be told,” he answered. “I 
assume that you know her reasons; yet you don’t seem to 
have fallen out with her. And why should I presume to 
be her judge, in any case?” 

“Perhaps you don’t know how she values your good 
opinion,” Janie said. And then she hesitated. “Yes, I 
suppose you would be content to say, ‘Well, whatever it 
was that happened, Sabie did what was right, ’ and you 
would ask nothing further about it. But if I were to let 
you go away like that, I know what she would say ; she 
would say, ‘Ah, you dared not tell him — you were afraid 
to see what he would think of me — 5^011 hesitated because 
you knew you would be cutting adrift from me the best 
of all my friends.’ You understand, Mr. Lindsay, that she 
is far more sensitive now than she used to be ; her troubles 
and her living alone have altered her a good deal— and if 
vou only knew how anxious she is, you would not think 
hardly of her.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


345 ) 

It was clear that Janie herself was considerably anxious, 
if her face told a true tale. 

“She says a woman would understand her position a 
little better — and perhaps forgive her; but not you.” 

“ I never heard yet, ” said he, “ that a man was likely to 
be more uncharitable toward a woman than another 
woman would be. I should have thought it would be the 
other way about.” 

“Supposing,” Janie said, rather tremblingly, and she 
fixed her eyes on him, “ supposing that Sabie was accused 
of — of — obtaining money on false pretenses?” 

“ I should not believe it,” he said, simply. 

“ But— but if it was true? I suppose nothing would ex 
cuse it? You would never forgive her^a man would never 
forgive her!” 

She was regarding him with piteous eyes. 

“ Now that you have told me so much, you must tell me 
the whole,” he said. “ Who makes such an accusation?” 

“ It was her own phrase — the very words she used when 
she was putting everything as harshly as it could be put, 
and then challenging me to say that you would not think 
ill of her. And if I tell you the story now— if I tell it 
badly— so that you have no sympathy with her, I am 
frightened ” 

“ You need not be frightened,” he said. “None of us 
who have known her are likely to think hardly of her, 
whatever she has done.” 

“And indeed it was all Foster’s doing!” Janie pleaded, 
earnestly. “ He terrified her into it. He was at his wits’ 
end for money. He declared that there was but the one 
chance to save him from utter ruin. Then he got her to 
go to Sir Anthony — but that was no use — and she knew it 
would be no use. Foster was desperate ; Sabina herself 
does not understand what scheme he had on foot; but he 
Avas determined to get some money somehow; and so he 
made sure that if notice of his death were sent to Sir An- 
thony, there would be some provision made for the sup- 
posed widow. And do 3"Ou know how he forced her into 
it? He swore, on oath, that if she didn’t help him in that 
way, he would take the bo}^ away Avith him to Australia, 
as soon as the law allowed him to do that, and that she 
would never see either of them again. It Avasn’t the first 
time he had made the threat — he had made it before— and 
oh, Mr. Lindsay, if you had seen Sabie the day she came 
to us to tell us— it Avas terrible, terrible ! I never saw any 
one so wild Avith alarm and despair. Just the one thing 
she lived for to be taken out of her life ! 

‘ ‘ Of course, Phil told her that Foster could not do such 
a thing just then; but she said it was all the more horrible 


350 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


to be looking forward to it when the boy would be her 
companion— fancy a child of seven to be taken away from 
the mother — and that is English law ! She says herself she 
thinks she must have been half mad; she clung to the lit- 
tle boy so ; and she was in such terror. Foster did it all. 
He had an advertisement of his death put in a Yorkshire 
paper; and all she did was to send that to Sir Anthony and 
to us, and ask us not to come down for a time. When Sir 
Anthony and I did come down, she was like a stone. And 
of course neither of us pretended to offer her sympathy ; I 
suppose both of us were secretly glad that the wretch was 
gone. Sir Anthony gave her a check there and then ; and 
he doubled her allowance — making it what it was before 
her marriage: of course, every farthing of that — every 
farthing she could scrape together— being claimed by that 
scoundrel. Now that is the whole extent of it — and it was 
all done under the terrorism about the taking away of the 
little boy. Mr. Lindsay,” said Janie, at the end of this 
appeal — and her eyes were filled with tears; ‘‘you’re not 
going to give up Sabie? y'ou're not going to ask me to tell 
her that y’ou are no longer her friend?” 

“I am sure you will tell her nothing of the kind— so 
long as my friendship is of any use to her,” he said. ‘‘ It 
is a pitiable story. I suppose, in her present state, she ex- 
aggerates her share in it. And so she thinks a man would 
take a less charitable view of it than a woman? Well, 
I don’t know about that. I think a man can see what her 
situation was just as well as a woman— a very miserable 
and unhappy situation that one naturally wishes she had 
never found herself in ” 

‘‘But it’s your forgiveness she seeks for,’’ said Janie, 
timidly. 

‘‘My forgiveness?” he repeated. ‘‘I refuse to utter a 
single word of blame.” 

Then Janie laughed through her tears. 

‘‘ Ah, didn’t I say that! — when she wouldn’t believe me. 
And she is making all the reparation she can,” Janie 
added, eagerly. ‘‘ You see, the death of the poor little boy 
left her free. Foster has no longer any hold over her. She 
won’t take another ])enny of any kind from her father; as 
soon as she gets down into Buclanghamshire she is going 
to write to him and confess everything, and give up the 
whole of her allowance. Old Mr." Foster is only too glad 
to have her go and live with him; and Sabie never had ex- 
pensive habits. Then, as for her husband, I suppose the 
old gentleman can easily prevent his coming about tlie 
place— Fred Foster will now be entirely dependent on 
him.” 

She glanced at him anxiously. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


351 


*‘I don’t know how it is,” she said, “but always you 
seem to bring strength and calmness with you," and a 
sense of s.afety. This morning, when I woke, I thought 
everything was at its worst ; there did not seem a glimpse 
of hope anywhere; and even when I thought of j^ou, it was 
with a kind of fear, for I was not quite sure — I was not 
quite so sure as I pretended to be to Sabie. But now, 
now you will let me tell her you don’t think so badly of 
her ” 

“ That is not the message,” said he. “If you think she 
cares for my opinion at all, you may tell her that I quite 
understand how she was driven to give an unwilling con- 
sent, and that I have no blame for her — none.” 

“It will be one little bit of happiness for her,” said 
Janie. “ And I suppose she will be safe from his persecu- 
tion down there. It’s little he knows why she was so tame 
and obedient before. That is all over now. And that of 
itself is something. But,” she added, wistfully, “I had 
been looking forward to a very different future for our 
Sabie.” 

“ You got my telegram last night, I suppose?” he said. 

“Yes; and I shall be as glad to get away as she will. 
Fancy if Foster were to come down and find me here!” 

“ Well, is he a person to be afraid of? But I will see to 
that. He will not come down here until you are both of 
you away. When can you go?” 

“ The few things will be packed to-day; and I think we 
can leave to-morrow morning.” 

“Very well; you needn’t be afraid of Foster coming 
down,” said he. “ Then I suppose you know what to do. 
Sabina will tell you whether it is to High Wycombe or to 
Prince’s Risborough you should telegraph to have a trap 
waiting. And of course you will telegraph to Missenden 
as well. I suppose it is too much to ask that you should 
go with her all the way ?’ ’ 

“ But I have Phil’s strict orders!” Janie exclaimed. “I 
am not to leave her until she is comfortably settled in her 
new home.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, that is all right, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ I shall be glad to have 
a line from you when everything has been arranged.” 

He rose to go. 

“ And you?” said Janie. ^ , ir 

He understood well enough the meaning of this half- 
frightened question; but he only answered, carelessly: 

“ Oh, well, I have still some things to get finished up at 
Burford Bridge. And I have been thinking of running 
down to Scotland for a few days, to put my small affairs 
in order. After that— I don’t know.” ^ 

“ T will write as soon as Sabie is settled in Buckingham 


353 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


shire,” Janie said. “ 1 suppose you would not care to see 
her now? No; it would be better not. She is very much 
upset ; and I should like to prepare her— oh, she will be so 
glad to know that you still think well and kindly of her. 
There is not any one whose opinion she values so much.” 

“Make her mind perfectly clear about that, then,” he 
said, in parting ; and then he left the house and returned to 
London. 

Tins was an objectless kind of day somehow. He did 
not know what to do with himself. He could find no em- 
ployment in his studio. He walked along to the Arts 
Club, and dawdled away some time there, reading maga- 
zines, smoking, chatting to casual droppers-in. Then he 
went out into the melancholy dusk of the London after- 
noon, and wandered about the streets and squares, watch- 
ing here and there the golden gleam of a newly-lit gas- 
lamp suddenly shoot through the gray. Finally, he got 
hack to the club again, ordered a bit of dinner, .and sat 
down at a small table by himself — which was not his usual 
way, for he had heaps of friends and acquaintances. 

One of these came into the room. 

“Holloa. Lindsay, all alone? What’s the matter?— 
3 ^ou’re looking rather glum. And yet j’ou shouldn’t be. 
Of course, you’ve heard what they’re prophesying about 


you?” 

“ I have heard nothing— I have been down in the. coun- 
try.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you haven’t heard that there is 
a knighthood being got ready for you? Don’t you know 

that talks of resigning? then, as a matter of certainty, 

the society will elect you as their new president; and 
every one says the queen will rise to the occasion. My 
congratulation.s. Sir Walter!” 

The recipient of this news did not seem to take much in- 
terest in it, however; perhaps the contingency was too re- 
mote; perhaps the Lindsays of Carnryan could afford to 
be indifferent about any such decoration. 

“ I will join you — to the extent of a sherry -and-bitters,” 
said this amiable new-comer, drawing in a chair. “But 
what is the matter, really? You look very depressed.” 

“I have reason to be depressed,” Lindsay said, “and I 
will tell you what it is. Either to-night or to-morrow 
morning I have to meet a man, and my difficulty will be 
to keep from murdering him. If I murder him it will be 
bad for me; if I don’t, it will be a distinct disservice to the 
country in which the hound is allowed to live, That’s 
all.” 


“What has he done to you?” 
” Nothing to me,” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


m 

“Oh, nonsense; people don’t take such violent dislikes 
for nothing — unless you’re chaffing. Or is there a woman 
in the affair?” 

“ There is, in a way,” Lindsay answered, frankly. “ It 
is his conduct to his wife that beats anything in the way 
of meanness — meanness and brutality — that was ever 
heard of. If I were to tell you here now, you would want 
to kick him across the square and back again, and along 
down Oxford Street, until your boots gave out. And the 
infernal ruffian dined with me last night! I didn’t know 
the fifteenth part of what he had done. And he dined 
with me— sat at the same table!” 

Lindsay had begun his story in the ordinary tone of club 
persiflage, but there was a darker light gathering in hi^ 
eyes. His companion hesitated for an instant, and then 
made bold to say : 

“ My good friend, pray excuse me. I don’t want to 
intermeddle, but I would strongly advise you to come out 
of that. It is a very dangerous position. When a man 
has strong sympathy Avith a married woman who has been 
injured, and would like to kick and cowhide the husband — 
mind, I am not speaking of this particular case — but I 
have noticed that mischief generally comes of it. You, of 
all people, too! You know the kind of talk that goes on 
about everybody. Well, I never heard your name coupled 
with the name of a woman even in the most innocent way. 
Oh yes; there was once, of course. You Avere pretty badl}^ 
hit that time, but I suppose you have forgotten all about it 
noAV. Let me see, Avhat was her name? The beautiful, tall 
girl Avith the splendid hair Avho came once or twice to Mrs. 
Mellord’ s. She lived doAAm in Kensington Square with some 
old people ” 

“I know whom you mean,” said Lindsay, shortly. 

“ But you haA^e forgotten her name! Lord, Lord, what 
faithfulness there is in man!” 

“ Her name was then Miss Zembi a. I will ask you not 
to say anything further about her.” 

“ iler name then? Oh yes, I think I remember some- 
thing about her getting married.” And then he seemed 
to be struck with some sudden fancy, and he looked 
quickly at Lindsay. “I say, Lindsay, you don’t mean 
that ” 

He stopped, and his silence Avas more significant than 
Avords. He dared not even ask Avhether the Miss Zembra 
of that time Avas the married woman Avhose injuries vA^ere 
now appealing to Lindsay’s sympathy, and to his indigna- 
tion and anger. But the sherry-and -bitters was finished. 
He rose. 

“ Of course, anything I said Avas only in chaff,” he said. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


854 

“but men do get into scrapes in the most innocent wav. 
And anybody going down to Windsor to be knighted 
would have to have a pretty clean record, as the saying 
is.” 

“ Murder might be objected to?” Lindsay said, looking 
up. 

“ If I were you I wouldn’t see that man, either to-night 
or to-morrow morning,’’ his acquaintance said. “Just 
you take care. There can be no harm in giving you so 

much advice. Ta-ta! I’m going to dine at the Rest* 

aurant, and Lord have mercy on my soul!” 

But Lindsay was not much alarmed. Having finished 
with dinner, he went up-stairs to the smoking-room, and 
there, after some deliberation, wrote a note to Fred Foster, 
asking him to call at his, Lindsay’s, studio the next day at 
noon ; the money would then be waiting for him. He dis- 
patched this note by a commissionaire a little after eight 
o’clock ; and he guessed that it was not likely Foster would 
think of going down to Witstead at so late an hour; while, 
as for the following morning, he would have to be in Lon- 
don at least until twelve. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

A KEEPSAKE. 

Punctually at noon Fred Foster arrived, and was shown 
through the house and through the garden to the studio. 
Lindsay was standing with his back to the fire, smoking his 
pipe. When he heard the footsteps outside he said to him- 
self, “ Now, can I keep my hands off the scoundrel? Can 
I leave England without telling him what a coward and 
sneak he is? Is it to be kicking? Or breaking a stick 
across his back?” But the instant the door was opened all 
that vanished from his mind. Contempt, pure and simple, 
took its place. He regarded this miserable creature with 
loathing, not with anger, briefly bade him good-morning, 
and then turned to stir the fire so as to avoid the necessity 
of shaking hands. 

“Snug quarters on a cold morning like this,” said Mr. 
Foster, in a friendly and familar way. “You are lucky 
fellows who can live in a dreamland of your own, instead 
of being buffeted about the world ” 

“ I have the money ready for you,” Lindsay said, curtly, 
and he walked across the room to his writing-desk. 

“Of course you understand I don’t take it as a loan,” 
Foster remarked, with some little assumption of dignity. ‘ ‘ I 
take it on commission. If it were a loan, I would give you 
mylOUforit ” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 355 

“I will not trouble you,” said Lindsay, with marked 
coldness. 

Foster glanced at him with a twinkle of anger in his 
half-dazed eyes. “Supercilious beast!” was doubtless m 
his mind ; but there was a vision of a pale blue check be- 
fore him, and that kept him respectful. All he said was: 

“Of course you won’t, for I don’t mean to. I take the 
money on commission, as I say ; and I explained to you 
the other night that, if the horse wins, you mustn’t expect 
to be paid th^e odds that are now quoted in the market. 
You will get a percentage on the money — that is all; but I 
dare say it will be handsome enough to satisfy you, if we 
pull the thing off.” 

Lindsay handed him the check without a word; it was a 
heavy price to pay — but by this time Sabina would be on 
her way down into Buckinghamshire. 

“ With anything like luck,” Foster said, as he folded up 
the check and put it in his pocket, “ I ought to be able to 
return to you a little slip of paper with considerably bigger 
figures on it. And I think we are pretty safe this journey. 
It’s about time something was coming my way — I’ve had 
such a cursed run of luck as never was heard of in the 
woi’4d before. And if we do pull it off this time, it will be 
to a pretty tune, I promise you ; it’s going to be a big thing, 
one way or the other. Just you wait to see what the 17th 
of March will bring forth.” 

“ In the meantime,” said Lindsay, “when are you going 
down to Witstead?” 

Foster stared, as much as to say, “ What’s that to 
you?” 

“Because,” Lindsay continued, “I should like you to 
make arrangements to let my housekeeper come back home 
again as soon as possible.” 

“ Your housekeeper? What is she doing there?” 

“ If you had been in your own house while your child 
was ill, you would know,” was the answer. “The little 
girl was afraid of the fever— or her people were — and she 
left. It was necessary to have some one at once, and I 
sent my housekeeper down. It is time she was home 
again.” 

“ Well, why doesn’t my wife let her go?” said he. 

“ As I understand it, Mrs. Foster was going down to 
your father’s, and my housekeeper was to remain in 
charge of the place until she showed up; that was the ar- 
rangement, I believe.” 

“My wife going down to Buckinghamshire 1” he ex- 
claimed. “Who told you that?” 

“ Janie.” 


356 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“Oh, but she sha’n’t! I’ll stop that. We’ll soon put ah 
end to that maneuvei'!” 

Lindsay looked at him curiously, and with patience. In- 
deed, there was no cause for any disquietude now. She 
would be on her way to Wycombe by this time; in 
an hour or two she would be safe in her new home. 
And so this poor weakling of a creature — with the shaky 
fingers and dazed eyes and half- bemused brain — im- 
agined that he had still a hold over Sabina, when he 
could no longer terrify her with threats of taking away 
her child ! It was amusing, in a way. Did he think it 
was his force of character? Or the majesty of the law be- 
hind him? Well, undoubtedly the majesty of the law was 
behind him ; but his own pecuniary interests were of more 
immediate importance to him; and Lindsay did not antic- 
ipate that the old gentleman in Missenden would find much 
difficulty in inducing his worthy sou to leave Sabina in 
peace. 

“ Well, I’m off,” said the gentleman with the check in 
his pocket. “Much obliged foi^your confidence. Hope 
you won’t find it misplaced.” 

This time it was the opening of the studio door that re- 
lieved Lindsay of the necessity of shaking hands. • 

‘ ‘ Good-morning — I suppose you Avill be able to find your 
way out?” 

“ Oh yes — don’t you trouble. Good -morning!” It was 
the last time these two ever saw each other. 

And then Lindsay began his preparation for going aAvay 
somewhere, for he had grown tired of England, and 
wished for a change. He was fond of travel and fresh 
scenes, and he could find occupation for himself wherever 
he went. So, first of all, he returned to Burford Bridge, 
and finished up his work there; then he made a journey 
northward to his native kingdom of Galloway, and saw 
that his small belongings in that famous county were 
being properly looked after; and finally he engaged a berth 
in a White Star liner. New York was to be his first ob- 
jective point. 

And yet he did not like the idea of leaving England 
without saying good bye to Sabina — any more than lie 
liked the idea of presenting himself before her a solitary 
and unsummoned visitor. He went to Janie about it. 

“ I know quite well.” he said, “ that I was of some little 
service to her down there in Surrey, But she may think 
I am pressing too much of a claim on the strength of 
that.” 

“ Then it’s little you understand Sabie,” Janie answered, 
promptly. “ And what is more — if you have any regard 
for her at all, you won’t leave the country .without going 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


357 


to see her. She will never believe that she is fully rein- 
stated in your good opinion unless you do that. Of course, 
I told her all you said — and very glad and very grateful 
she was — but assurances of that kind, coming from a third 
person, are never quite satisfactory. Mr. Lindsay, you 
will go and see Sabie!” 

“ She might think it strange, my going there alone,” he 
said, doubtfully. 

“Will you go if she asks you?” 

“ Most certainly!” 

“ Then wait till the day after to-morrow.” 

On the morning indicated by Janie there came to him a 
very friendly, if rather timid, little note from Sabina^ say- 
ing she had heard from Janie that he was leaving England 
for some time, and intimating that if it was not altogether 
too inconvenient for him, she would like to have the op- 
portunity of bidding him good- bye. He sought out a time- 
table; there was a train at eleven o’clock. And so, in due 
course, he found himself on his way to Prince’s Eisborough ; 
for he thought he would like to have a walk across the 
Chiltern hills, to have a last look at an English landscape ; 
besides, that would time bis arrival at Great Missenden for 
about five o’clock, when he could not incommode the un- 
known household in any way. 

The journey down was uninteresting, for a cold gray mist 
robbedl the landscape of any color it might otherwise 
have had. But perhaps his eyes were busy with other 
things than those visible through the carriage window. It 
seemed to him as if he was bent on a double leave-taking 
—this was a last look at England, and a last good-bye to 
Sabina too. 

Arrived at Prince’s Eisborough station, he asked for 
some scrap of lunch at the refreshment- room there, but 
they could give him nothing. They suggested that if he 
went on to the village, he might fare better at the George. 

“If it’s only bread-and-cheese,” he said to himself, as he 
set out again, “ I must have something.” For he was not 
going to have Sabina inconvenienced by the appearance of 
a hungry visitor. 

Great, however, and unexpected was his good fortune 
at the George— a small inn in the main thoroughfare of 
this dead-alive and melancholy village. He suddenly 
found himself in the land of Canaan ; for there was a mar- 
ket-ordinary going on in the principal room, and they got 
a place for him with great politeness, and made him very 
welcome at the bountiful feast. Indeed, this was not the 
first time by many that he had noticed the good-fellowship 
and friendliness and courtesy shown by a number of 
strangers thrown together in an English inn— a courtesy 


35S 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


of which he had never seen the like in any other country 
he had visited ; and he had been a considerable traveler. 
So far from each man attending solely to his own wants, 
and gulping his food as if he was running to catch a train, 
there was a general helpfulness that was almost obtrusive; 
and there was an air of leisurely comfort about the pro- 
ceedings, as if each man knew that his dog-cart was out- 
side, awaiting his good pleasure. And he liked the whole- 
some and healthy and sturdy look of these elderly farmers 
— with their silver-gray whiskers, and ruddy complexion, 
their clear, blue eyes, and their deliberate, strongly ac- 
centuated, masculine speech. Their humor was not very 
subtle perhaps; their political views were robust and defin- 
ite, rather than learned ; and plain common-sense and at- 
tention to the substantial facts of life were doubtless more 
in their way than a gay facetiousness; nevertheless, judg- 
ing by a tolerably wide experience, this type of character 
was very grateful to Walter Lindsay, who had long ago 
arrived at the conviction that the clever, shallow, con- 
ceited, ignorant, belie ving-in-nothing London cockney is the 
most degraded and contemptible of all God’s creatures — if 
such he may properly be called. 

Then he set out to climb the Chilterns, keeping to the 
right of the great white cross which, cut on the chalk 
slope, is visible all the way from Oxford. The conditions 
were not favorable for his last look round. A pale mist 
hung along the hills; the wintery woods and hedges were 
colorless, but for here and there a bit of green holly or 
russet beech: the sky was monotonously gray. And "yet 
when he reached the top, and turned to regard the great 
plain stretched out beneath him — with its farm-houses and 
fields and copses and roads all phantom-like in the prevail- 
ing haze — it was with not a little regret that he knew this 
was a leave-taking. He had a great affection for England, 
if he was born a Scotchman. It was in England he had 
lived the most of his life and done the best of his work. 
And who more faithfully than himself had studied her 
moods and ways— and communed with her in secret places 
—and got to know her elusive charm? For the beauty of 
English landscape has subtleties that none but the painter 
knows; and it is only after patient habitude that these are 
revealed even to him; often enough, moreover, when he 
has caught and transferred to pajper or canvas something 
of this coy graciousness, the result is quite disappointing 
to the ordinary spectator, accustomed to the obvicMis char- 
acteristics of Italian lakes, Swiss mountains. Highland 
glens, and the like. The chromo-lithographer is not at 
home in the English counties— or, at best, he goes up to 
Vfestmoreland, wher^ he can get a nice, handy, portable 


i^ABlNA ZEMBRA. ‘dSO 

edition of lake and mountain scenery, all within easy com- 
pass, and all of guaranteed prettiness. 

Up here, on the summit of the hill the roads were filled 
with snow and half-melted ice, which made it difficult 
walking; so, where it was practicable, he made a path for 
himself through the leafless beech-woods. It was strangely 
still in these solitudes; there seemed to be no work going 
on a,t any of the farms; the remotest sounds were plainly 
audible in the hushed air. His own footsteps, too, were 
noiseless on the yielding carpet of withered leaves; there 
was not a sign of life anywhere except when a jay fled 
shrieking through the branches, or a long-tailed magpie 
flapped his silent way across the fields. He could not have 
been more alone in the forests of Champlain. 

He had carefully made out his route on the Ordnance 
Survey map before starting; and when, at length, he came 
in sight of a spacious mansion, standing at the summit of a 
noble avenue that sloped away down into the valley, he 
knew that this was Hampden House, and that here had lived 
the great Englishman whose refusal to pay Charles’ ship- 
money had rung through the land as a summons to Eng- 
land to stand by her ancient rights and liberties. And he 
wondered whether they had brought his body, after the 
fray at Chalgrove, to be buried here ; and whether they 
had borne it, with solemn state, up this great and silent 
avenue. And he wondered, too — as a landscape-painter — 
where, except in England, one could find such an avenue; 
some three hundred yards he guessed its width, and over 
a mile its length, of velvet turf, where the snow allowed 
that to be visible, and pionted on each side by magnificent 
beeches and Spanish chestnuts. Down this avenue he 
made his way to the Missenden road— startling a rabbit 
now and again from among the withered bracken and the 
snow. He knew that close by was the piece of land on 
which the ship-money was levied. Had any one thought 
of erecting some kind of a memorial to mark so interesting 
a spot? 

However, it was neither John, Hampden, nor the ship- 
money, nor the fatal Chalgrove field that was in his mind 
when he drew near the village of Missenden. The old- 
fashioned house, with its red- brick wall, and tall elm-trees, 
and laurestinus bushes, was pointed out to him by a passer- 
by ; he rang the bell, and was admitted by an elderly woman, 
who begged him to go into the drawing-room— Mrs. Foster 
would be with him presently. So there he waited, glancing 
at the portraits and^ketches on the walls, rather struck by 
the old-world look of the furniture and the quaint decora- 
tions, and wondering whether Sabina had as yet had time 


860 SABINA ZEMBRA. 

to grow quite accustomed to the quietude of her new 
home. 

The door opened; he turned instantly — and caught sight 
of a pair of eyes, timid, and yet shining and placid and 
grateful. And this was not at all the pale Sabina he had 
expected to see ; there was a flush of rose- red on her face— 
the flush of a girl of seventeen; and she came to him 
quickly, with extended hand, as if her gladness at the sight 
of him had overcome her embarrassment. 

“It is very kind of you,” she said, simply. “Janie 
gave me all the messages you sent — and— and that Avas 
only more of your goodness to me; but when I heard you 
were going away, well, I — I — wanted to see you yourself, 
to make sure that you did really forgive me ” 

“ Yes, but we are not going to speak of that any more,” 
said he, gravely. “ That is all over and gone. Janie must 
have told you that I understood the whole situation per- 
fectly.” 

“ And I am not even to thank jmu for being so kind?” 

“ There is no kindness in the matter; there may be a lit- 
tle common-sense. Now, tell me — are you quite comfort- 
able here? Do you like the place?” 

“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “They do everything 
they can think of for me. and one day is just like another; 
it is a peaceful life; and I wish for nothing better. Only,” 
she added, Avith downcast eyes, “it is— very— far aAvay — 
from Witstead.” 

He knew Avhat she meant; but he understood that Janie 
had undertaken to tend the little grave there. 

“ And you,” she said — “ Avhy are you going away from 
England, after being home so short a time?” 

Well, he began and gave her his reasons, or excuses, for 
going ; and told her of all his plans and projects and made the 
matter as cheerful as it might be. Then she asked him to 
go into the dining-room, where old Mr. Foster, Avhose rheu- 
matism was pretty bad, was seated ; and they had tea there, 
and further talk. It Avas pleasant to hear Sabina’s voice. 
And sometimes there was a smile in her eyes. He began 
to think that in this quiet haven she might attain some 
forgetfulness of the too ungenerous past, and that the 
years might bring to her at least a placid content. The 
garden visible through the window looked somewhat dis- 
mal at present; but spring Avas coming; he could see Sabina 
among the young blossoms — in a- light print dress — a pair 
of gardener’s shears in her hand— -perhaps a touch of peach- 
color in her cheek— and the bright sunlight on her golden- 
brown hair. * 

The gray of the afternoon deepened ; the elderly Avoman 
brought in the lamps, and then he rose. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


361 


‘ I have to walk to Wycombe,” he said, “ and I am not 
quite sure of the way— so I had better be going.” 

” But you must not get astray in the dark,” Sabina said, 
anxiously. “If you will wait a few minutes I will send 
over to the inn and get a conveyance for you — indeed, you 
must do that.” 

” If you are not too proud to go in a pony-chaise,” old 
Mr. Foster said, with a laugh, “our lad can drive vou 
across; I’m sure the cob doesn’t get half enough exercise 
in this weather. ’ 

‘‘Oh, thank you, I could not think of troubling you; 
but I think what Miss Ze— Mrs. Foster says is quite right 
—I shouldn’t like to miss my way — so I^lf go into the inn 
in passing and get a trap to take me over. I may catch 
an earlier train, too, at Wycombe.” 

lie spoke rapidly and confusedly; he hoped neither of 
them had noticed the half-stumble. But indeed she had 
been looking so young, and speaking in a pleased way, as 
in the olden days — and also, perhaps, he was a little be- 
wildered by the knowledge that now he was about to bid 
her farewell, probably for many years. He was a little 
breathless when he found that she came out after him into 
the hall. 

‘‘Mr. Lindsay,” she said— and she stood facing him in 
the lamplight, but with her eyes downcast — ‘‘good-bye is 
easily said ; but if you are going away — perhaps for some 
years — well, I should like you to think sometimes that I 
don’t forget, that I never, never can forget, what your 
friendship has been to me. Would you take a little keep- 
sake from me— just to remind you? It was my grand- 
father’s — my mother gave it to me.” 

She timidly offered him the trinket. It was an old- 
fashioned ring— red gold and garnets. 

He held her hand in his, and for a second he could not 
thank her at all. 

“It will be a reminder, will it not,” she said, ‘‘that I 
have not ceased to be grateful to you for all your kindness 
to me?” 

‘‘And if you only knew how I value it — and how I shall 
value it many thousands of miles away.” He did not 
trust himself to say more. ‘‘Good-bye, and God bless 
you!” 

She opened the door for him; he looked once at the 
tender eyes and then was gone. 


363 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

A KNELL OF DOOM. 

One evening, toward nine o’clock, Fred Foster called at 
the Northern Counties Hotel, Jermyn Street, asked to see 
Mrs. Fairservice, and was shown up-stairs to her sitting- 
room. Apparently she had just finished dinner; dessert 
was still on the table ; and she had gone to the fireplace, 
before which she was standing with an evening paper in 
her hand. 

She was smartly dressed ; her yellow hair resplendent, 
and she wore a string of brilliants round her neck. 

“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said, throwing aside the 
paper. “I’ve plenty to tell you. And to have a jock 
dining with you who can neither eat, nor drink, nor speak 
a word unless you get it out of him with a corkscrew, isn’t 
much fun. And I’ve plenty to talk at)out too. There, 
help yourself to some wine — the cigars are on the top of 
the piano.” 

She seemed a little bit excited. 

“Then that was Joe Cantly I passed in the hall?” he 
said. 

‘ ‘ Yes. He’s off to King’s Cross. ’ ’ 

“I thought it looked like his figure; but he went by 
quickly, without a word. Well, what’s the news?” he 
asked, pouring out some champagne with no very steady 
hand. 

“Why, just the same old news, neither more nor less,” 
she said; but there was a smile of triumph about the thin, 
hard lips, and in the steely -blue eyes. 

“Everything is going beautiful; and if I haven’t got 
hold of Charlie Bernard this time it’s pretty queer. Oh, I 
don’t say you haven’t done your share well enough; but 
when my friend Charlie goes smash, he’ll have a pretty 
good guess who did the trick for him. And what a slice of 
luck it was— the moment Joe Cantly confessed to me that 
I’d better not back Master of Roy, I suspected what they 
were up to. ‘Why, Joe,’ I said, ‘it’s a moral, if that horse 
is ridden fair, and you know it is.’ He wouldn’t answer 
that. ‘You’re going to lose the race; is that Bernard’s 
little game?’ sa^^s I. But no, the mummified little creature 
wouldn’t say one thing or another. If you only knew the 
trouble I had to corkscrew the truth out of him ; and in- 
deed it was only nods and winks he would give. And how 
cleverly they have managed it! Who would imagine that 
Charlie Bernard, openly backing Master of Roy to win the 
Lincolnshire Handicap — and the stable- money on, too — 
was laying against the horse by commission, quietly and 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


863 


gently, but taking everything the public felt inclined to 
offer. And we are in that public, Master Freddie, ” she con- 
tinued, with a laugh. “We are among the poor, innocent 
gulls. We are putting our little bits on; and every one 
knows the favorite will win; and we’re rejoicing at tlie 
prospect of the golden sovereigns being handed over, when 
behold ! something goes wrong with Master of Roy, or Joe 
Cantly does a little bit of roping, and he’s down at the foot 
of the poll, or out of it altogether. The Jockey Club make 
a fuss, and there is a talk in the newspapers ; but nothing 
can be proved; and, in the meantime, Charlie Bernard 
has scooped in the guineas, and put himself on his legs 
again. Very good; that’s all right.” 

She rang the bell for some tea. 

“I told you all the way through that Bernard was a 
fool,” she continued, talking rapidly and excitedly. “ His 
run of good-luck turned his head — he thought he couldn’t 
do wrong; then, when things did go a little bit bad with 
him, he lost his head the other way, and began plunging 
to recover himself. South African diamond mines ! Do 
you think I should have let him touch South African dia- 
mond-mines, if I had had anything to do with his affairs? 
I couldn’t have helped all his ill-luck; I couldn’t have 
helped Trigonella going dead lame — puff went twelve hun- 
dred guineas then ; but I could have told him to keep to 
things he knew something about. All the better for me 
now. He is just walking blindfold into the trap I have set 
for him; and when it snaps on his ankle he’ll think the 
heavens and the earth have come to an end. That’s tidy 

odds— 100 to 14~to lay against the favorite. Listen ” 

She took up the paper. “‘Master of Roy continues to 
grow in public appreciation, and Mr. Bernard is confident 
in his ability to win.’ But it’s a deal safer to bet on his 
losing, if you can trust your jockey to rope him. Poor 
Joe! — you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve had with him. 
He’s always been on the square, he maintained. ‘Very 
well,’ says I, ‘ why should I have any bother about per- 
suading you to ride this race honest?’ ‘It will be selling 
theguv’nor,’ says he, pulling a melancholy face. ‘Hang 
the guv’norl’ says I. ‘That’s my tip-— straight. Serves 
him right for trying to swindle the British public. What 
can he do to you? Nothing. You ride the horse to win, 
and win it must and shall; what can he complain of? 
Would he like to have you round on him? And can’t you 
have your excuse ready? Tell him you meant to pull the 
horse, but that it got the mastery of you at the finish— 
anything you like ; do you think he would dare to say a 
word? Not he!’ Goodness me, the trouble I had to get a 
jock to promise to ride fair, who had been up till now as 


364 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


innocent as a babe— according to his own account! But I 
did it. I’ve got Joe Cantly as safe as the bank. And it 
isn’t only the four thousand to nothing the horse wins— 
though that is a tidy little sum in itself. I’ve got him, I 
tell you— he won’t play hanky-panky with me.” 

She had been becoming more and more vehement, and 
her eyes were sparkling. 

” I can see his face. Charlie Bernard is the worst loser 
I ever saw. I hope the barmaid will be with him— that i 
would be best of all; and of course he’ll be pretending 
that he is cock-sure Master of Roy will come romping in 
—perhaps he’ll be backing him for a little bit— just to 
show off— and make people certain that everything is fair 
and straight. Then he’ll watch them come sweeping along 
— quite indifferently, you know— oh, yes, quite indifferently 
—until the crowd takes up the cry— ‘ Master of Roy! 
Master of Roy !’— my heavens, I can see his face this mo- 
ment!” 

In her vehemence she snapped in two the paper-cutter 
she was holding in her hands; she flung the fragments in 
the fire. And then she turned angrily toward her com- 
panion. 

“Why don’t you speak? Good heavens, man, you are as 
bad as the jock! Haven’t you got anything to say ?” 

Thus admonished, Fred Foster put aside his cigar for the 
moment; he did not seem in an alert mood. 

“ It will be a facer for Charlie Bernard,” he said. 

“A facer!” she repeated, scornfully. “It will be eter- 
nal smash— that’s more like it. And you think he will be 
able to weigh in on settling day? I think not. I think 
there will be a few little arrangements, and some trifling 
arrears. I’ll tell you what I should like to see some day 
— Charlie Bernard presenting himself with his jockey at 
the scales, and having slipped before his nose a nice little 
telegram from Messrs. Weatherby to the clerk of the 
course, saying that until the previous forfeits are paid, Mr. 
Bernard had better return to his own humble domicile. 
That’s what they call a denouement; and home he goes, 
horse and jock and all, and beats the barmaid out of spite. 
Well, I can’t talk about it any more just now — it kindles 
me up a bit too much. Talk about something else. Where's 
your wife?” 

“I told you,” he said, rather sulkily. “ She is staying 
with my father in Buckinghamshire.” 

“ Does he believe you’re a dead and buried corpse?” 

“ No, of course not. What had he to do with it?” 

“ It was a pretty dangerous prank to play, my friend.” 

“I was desperate,” he mumbled. “And it served my 
turn anyway. It’s wonderful how amenable people be- 


SABINA ZEMBitA. 

come when you can show them a bit of the ready in your 
hand. I might have had more, too, but for the little chap 
dying— another stroke of bad luck; then she threw the 
whole thing up, and that game was played out. But it 
served me at the time.” 

“Well,” she said, in a mocking way, “ there’s nothing I 
like so much to see as displays of natural affection. It’s 
so awfully innocent and nice. I remember when I met 
you at Scarborough, I couldn’t help laughing when you 
told me you were a papa. Master Freddie Foster a papa! 
And I wondered how you would support the character. 
But I suppose you really were sorry when the boy died — 
when you found you couldn’t screw any more money out 
of your father-in-law.” 

“You may as well leave my domestic relations alone — 
they’ve got nothing to do with you.” 

“Oh, you needn’t be ill-tempered about it,” she said, 
with an affectation of gayety. “Come, let’s hear what 
you’re going to do when the great haul comes off. Settle 
up all round, go down and pacify the old man, turn farmer 
and grow mangold? Really, I don’t think you could do 
better. You’ll never do much at the great game. You get 
frightened. Here, when you could get on Master of Roy at 
100 to 8, you were still hesitating about every miserable 
fiver ” 

“ Well, there’s no more hesitation now,” said he, rather 
blankly. “Every farthing I could beg or borrow is 
launched in this swim; and I must say Johnny Russell 
stood by me like a man. Deane, too— well, it’s wonderful 
how they believe in you when you can put your hand in 
your pocket and show them a few sovereigns.” 

“ What are you going to do, then, when it comes off?” 
she repeated. “ Is it to be the same old game?” 

“ The first thing is this,^’ said he. “ I’ve had a pretty 
baddish time of it for the last year or eighteen months— a 
rat-in-a-drain-pipe sort of existence. Well, when I find 
myself on my legs again, I think I shall be entitled to a 
little amusement ” 

“And there’s only the one place in Europe for that,” said 
she, promptly, “and that’s Monte Carlo. Did you ever 
find a quarter of an hour hang heavy on your hands there? 
I never did. In the daytime walks and drives in that de- 
licious air— or boating — or pigeon-shooting for you; music 
in the afternoon; promenade concerts in the evening; 
watching the tables, and putting on a five-franc piece now 
and again just for fun. The hotels are not dear; you meet 
the most interesting people— well, I call it just a heavenly 
place, if you have strength of neck enough to keep back 


N 


Sabina zembba. 




from gambling. And I thank a merciful Providence for 
having screwed on my head pretty straight.” 

“ Are you going?” 

She laughed. 

‘‘Yes— in one of two capacities. If everything comes 
off all right— well, it won’t be quite a fortune for me, for 
my bet of four thousand to nothing with Joe Cantley will 
have to come out of it; but it will be a tidy sum; and I 
shall treat myself to a bit of a spree. Then take it the 
other way. Supposing that my faithful jock should, after 
all, play the rogue, or supposing that Master of Roy should 
come lumbering along the Carholme Mile at the tail end 
of the lot ” 

‘‘ Oh, what is the use of your talking like that !” he said, 
testily. 

She looked at him with a kind of compassionate scorn. 

“You haven’t got the nerve of a mouse — unless when 
you’re half stupefied with chloroform, or whatever it is 
you’re killing yourself with. Well, I like to face things. 
I consider myself rather a woman of business, don’t you 
know. And you may be sure that I have made my little 
dispositions; so that if by some horrible mischance the 
worst comes to the worst, I sha’n’t be quite dead broke. 
Next Wednesday' will find me at the Lord Warden Hotel 
at Dover — I shall have a telegram in the afternoon — if it 
is not satisfactory— well, I vacate the premises; that’s all.” 

She glanced at him again. 

“ What will you do?” 

“ In that case? I can’t think of it!” he said, with hag- 
gard eyes. “I wish these next few days were over. It’s 
maddening work, waiting on and on: and you can’t drive 
the hours a bit faster. It’s at night that it’s most horrible 
— I don’t believe I ever sleep more than half an hour at a 
time, and every time I wake it’s with a start, and a fancy 
that some one is in the room bringing some frightful news. ’ ’ 

“And yet you go on taking that beastly stuff!” she 
said. 

“ If I didn’t, I shouldn’t get any sleep at all,” he an- 
swered, gloomily. “But this won’t last.” 

“No, it won’t,” she said, significantly. 

“ I mean that after next Wednesday there will be no 
need of it. I shall pull round after that— get away some- 
where — take more exercise, and that kind of thing. It is 
merely anxiety that has been a little too much for my^ 
nerves — there will be no anxiety at Monte Carlo, if I 
should follow ymu there — except over a five-franc piece, as 
you suggest.” 

“I wouldn’t advise your going much to the tables, even 
ftS an onlooker,” she observe!. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


3G7 


“Bid I risk a single napoleon when I was over there that 
last time?” he demanded. 

“No, probably not; but there were reasons why you 
should save up every farthing. So you are thinking of 
coming over to Monte Carlo, too? That is, of course, if 
we pull this thing off successfully. But if not?” 

“ It’s no use talking about that,” he said, peevishly. 

“ Haven’t you the courage to face the possibility?” she 
said, as a sort of taunt. 

“ You have — because you are perfectly certain that Mas- 
ter of Roy is going to win. You can face twenty dozen 
possibilities when you don’t believe in them. But what is 
the use of talking about them?” 

“ They may be hocussing the horse at this very minute,” 
she said. 

“Why, they are taking precautions about him as if he 
were first favorite for the Derby — it's quite notorious. 
Part of Charlie Bernard’s game, of course; the public are 
sure of a winner this time, and they are to be led on. 
A hundred to fourteen — it’s swinging odds to have to pay 
up.” 

_ “ Yes, but suppose the backers are bit, after all?” she in- 
sisted. “What will you do then, my poor Freddie? 
What refuge will you fly to from the wrath to come?” 

“It’s my last chance in England,” he said, gloomily. 
“If it doesn’t go right, then I’m off for good. I suppose 
Jack Russell would pay my passage to Australia.” 

“ Australia?” she repeated. “ What good would you do 
there? In Australia they want people who can work.” 

Then suddenly she altered her tone. 

“Come, come, I won’t torment you any more. I only 
wanted to see how far down into your boots you could get, 
for you can get further than any human creature I know. 
Wake up, man! What’s the matter with you? Or what's 
the matter with the champagne that you won’t touch it? 
Has it gone fiat? Never mind, let’s see if we can’t find 
something more to your mind.” 

She went to the cellaret in the sideboard, and got out 
s^me brandy, and brought over the cigars. 

“ There,” she said, “ help yourself. And I will make my 
humble apologies for frightening you. Of course it’s all 
right. Did a jockey ever get such a chance before? — four 
thousand pounds for riding honest I Of course you’ll see 
Master of Roy come romping in— or, rather, you’ll hear— 
for I don’t suppose you are going down to Lincoln, are 
you? And don’t imagine that I mean to cross the Channel 
if it comes off all right — not at once, I mean. Oh, no! I’m 
coming back to London. I want to hear how things are 
going with Master Charlie. I should like to take a run 


308 


BAKINA ZE21BEA. 


down to Doncaster, and go dri%dng about, on the chance of 
seeing the barmaid. Not that I care a pin-point— a bar- 
maid! — he’s welcome; and so is she— to all the diamonds 
she’ll ever get out of the South African mines. Don’t they 
want crushers for that work?— she might go out there and 
use her feet — saving of labor. And if Charlie Bernard 
can’t guess who landed him, he’s a bigger fool than I take 
him to be— and that is something considerable.” 

“I wish next Wednesday was come and gone,” Fred 
Foster said. 

She regarded him with rather a contemptuous glance. 

” Better go home and sleep till then,” was her curt ad- 
vice. 

” I wish I could,” he said. 

And then he rose to go. 

” Don’t you come to see me again until the race has been 
run,” said she. “If it goes all right, I will hurry back to 
town at once— you will find me here. And until then mind 
you keep a quiet tongue in your head.” 

She pressed another cigar on him, and he left, making 
away for his obscure lodgings in Fetter Lane. 

How these intervening days passed he himself probably 
knew but little. The few companions whom he casually 
met had got an inkling that he stood to lose or win ever^'- 
thing on the issue of the Lincolnshire Handicap; and those 
of them who had any interest in him hoped that, if he was 
backing the favorite, he had taken care to hedge a little, 
for Charlie Bernard’s phenomenal run of luck had of late 
deserted him in a remarkable manner. And they accepted 
for what they were worth Foster’s assurances that it was 
only persistent sleeplessness that had driven him to chloral, 
chlorodyne, morphia, or whatever was the remedy he 
sought. It was but a temporary aid ; as soon as he could 
get away he would be all right again. In the meantime he 
Avas a pitiable-looking object— pallid, nerveless, apprehen- 
sive, bemussed, and hollow-cheeked. He was “keeping 
himself up,” he said, until he could get aAvay. 

The Wednesday came. In the morning papers Master 
of Roy was still quoted as first favorite, and the prophets 
were almost unanimous in approving the public fancy. 
Mrs. Fairservice Avas certainly confident; for in the simple 
gayety of her heart — and Avithout rhyme or reason — she 
sent him a telegram from Dover: “ Keep up your pecker, 
old man.” He drank some brandy, and smoked hard, to 
make the hours go by. 

Long before the hour appointed for the race, he went 
out and down into the Strand, where he kept aimlessly 
and feverishly walking to and fro, gazing blankly into 
3hop-Avindows, or reading play-bills at the theater doors. 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


869 


But as the time drew near these wanderings were more 
and more circumscribed, until he hardly went more than a 
stone’s throw^ east or west of the window of a certain news 
agency. A small crowd had already collected there on the 
pavement, hanging loosely about, and evidently waiting 
for the news. He kept away from those people as well as 
he could, though his eyes would incessantly go back to the 
window, with far more dread than hope, so terribly anx- 
ious was he. Then a large white sheet was put up, and a 
murmur went through the crowd. He walked quickly 
forward. What was this sound that chilled him to the 
heart? — “Stagdyke!” said one; and “Stagdykel” they 
seemed all to be repeating. 

Another step forward, and the great splashed letters in 
ink were only too terribly legible — staring him in the 
face. This was what his burning and throbbing eyes be- 
held: 

LINCOLN HANBICAP. 


Stagdyke *. 1 

Rebellion 2 

Master of Roy 3 


The small crowd melted away almost immediately; he 
was left standing on the pavement, bewildered, incapable 
of movement, not even perceiving that he was in the way 
of the passers-by. It seemed as if he hardly knew what 
had befallen him. Then, in a stunned and blind way, he 
managed to cross the busy thoroughfare, and entered a 
public- house, where he said he would like to sit down for 
a moment. They brought him a chair at once; and he had 
just taken hold of the back of it when a giddiness came 
over him, and he sank helplessly to the floor. 

It was but for a second. The potman helped him to his 
feet again, and brushed the sawdust from his coat, and 
Foster seemed to try to pull himself togethel*. He did not 
sit down. He ordered a bottle of brandy, for which he 
paid, and then asked them to get him a four-wheeled cab. 
He gave the cabman his address in Fetter Lane, and in a 
few minutes was left at the door of his lodgings. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

NIGHT FALLS. 

About mid-day on the following Saturday, Mr. John 
Scott called at these lodgings in Fetter Lane, and was ad- 
mitted by the landlady, who forthwith began her protesta- 
tions and complaints and entreaties. 

“ No, I don’t want no rent; I want to see him out o’ my 
’ouse, that’s what I want; I have my other lodgers to con- 
sider; and every one of us expecting to be burned alive in 


370 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


our beds some night. You said as you was going to take 
him away yesterday, and the day before ” 

“I’ll get him away as soon as I can,” the big, good-nat- 
ured-looking man said, taking her remonstrance quite as 
a matter of course. ‘ ‘ Do you mean to say he has never 
stirred out?” 

“Stirred out? Where do you think he would get the 
drink, then? And I’d have kep’ him out, but I couldn’t 
lock the door against the other lodgers; and would he give 
up his latch-key ?-^not he— he’s that cunning; for all he 
doesn’t know no more what he’s doing than the babe un- 
born. He was crying yesterday! lor’, such a silly; said 
his mother died this time last year — Avhat do I know about 
his mother, or care, either? I don’t believe a word of it — 
it was all a trying on, to get Polly to go out for some more 
gin. Well, what I say is this — I’ll stand it no longer, and 
if you don’t get him out o’ this ’ouse I’ll get in a p’leece- 
man as will. We don’t want to be burned in our beds 
—and I don’t ask for no rent — I want him out o’ this 
’ouse afore he sets it on fire— that's what I want and mean 
to have.” 

“ Very well, very well,” John Scott said, suavely. “ I’ll 
get him away if I can.” And therewith he proceeded to 
climb the narrow and dusky stairs, slowljr and cautiously, 
as became one of his bulk. 

When he opened the door of the small apartment he 
found that the blind of the solitary window was down, and 
the gas burning. Foster lay at full length on the bed, his 
clothes on, his face downward on his hands. John Scott 
went forward and touched his shoulder, and then shook 
him slightly. 

“Here, man, wake up! Haven’t you come to your 
senses yet?” 

Another shake, and Foster slowly turned and raised his 
head, and regarded his visitor with dazed, stupefied eyes, 
that yet had some vague look of terror in them. 

“ What do you want?” he said, in a thick voice. 

“ Sit up and I’ll tell 3'ou,” Scott said, and he pulled him 
up by the shoulders. “ I’ve been trying these two days to 
get something hammered into your head, and it hasn’t 
been much use. I wonder if you’ll understand now. Do 
you know that there’s a warrant out against you?” 

“ I don’t care,” he said, wearilj^; “they can take what 
they like — I’ve nothing ” 

“Bless my soul! can’t you understand the difference 
between a writ and a warrant? It’s a warrant, I tell you; 
and the warrant-officer is on the lookout for you. Don’t 
you know you are wanted for that affair at the American 
Bar?” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


371 


The big Yorkshireman eyed him curiously ; but there 
was no kind of intelligence in the vacuous, hopeless, pallid 
face. All that Foster said— with a sort of feeble impa- 
tience — was : 

‘ ‘ What do you want here ? What time of the night is it ?” 

“ Time of the night? It's the middle of the day, man! 
Here, ITl put out the gas — the smell of it is sickening — and 
let some light into the room. 

He did as he said, Foster following his movements with 
listless observation. 

“ What day is it?” he asked, when the dull London light 
streamed into the room. 

” I like that 1” the other said. “ Don’t know the day of 
the week I It’s Saturday, then.” 

“Saturday?” Foster repeated, vacantly; and yet he 
seemed to be thinking too. “Then yesterday was the 
19th?” 

“No mistake about that.” 

“ The 19th,” he said, absently; and he was staring right 
before him, and taking no heed of his visitor. “ That was 
the day I was to start afresh— and I was to go down to 
Missenden — yesterday, was it? — gone by — gone by.” 

John Scott came over to him. 

“Look here, Freddy, you’ve got into trouble, though 
you don’t seem to know it; and I mean to do the best I 
can for you; but it’s no good unless you try to pull your- 
self together. Do you understand?” 

Well, his intelligence seemed to grasp this idea. 

“Yes, yes, that’s all right,” said he, with incoherent 
earnestness. “That’s all right. You’re a good fellow, 
Scott. I’m listening. All I want is a drop of something 
to steady my nerves.” 

He rose, and with trembling gait was making for the 
cupboard when the Yorkshireman interposed his capacious 
bulk. 

“No you don’t. Now that I’ve caught you in a half- 
sensible state, you’ve got to keep so until we decide what 
has to be done.” 

“It’s no use, then,” Foster said, helplessly. “I can’t 
listen to you. I feel like death. I wish you’d go away 
and leave me to myself.” 

His visitor hesitated. Perhaps what he said 'was true. 

“ Well, one nip,” he said, and stood aside. 

Foster went to the cupboard, quickly poured out half a 
tumblerful of some white fluid, and drank it off before the 
other could interpose. Then he went back to the bed and 
sat down. It seemed to concern him little now what his 
visitor had to say. 

“ That was a stiffish dose, but I hope it will pull you to- 


B72 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


gether^ you’ll have to have your wits about you, unless 
you want to be laid by the heels,” Scott said. ‘‘So you 
iunderstand, now, that there is a warrant out against you, 
and that you’ll have to get clear away from London, like 
gj'oased lightning, or you’ll be up at Marlborough Street?” 

“Oh, Avhat are you talking about?” Foster said, pee- 
wishly, and yet in an absent way ; he did not seem to be 
paying much attention. 

Upon my soul, I don’t believe you know one thing that 
has occurred during these three days!” John Scott ex- 
claimed. ‘‘ Do you mean to say you can’t remember what 
happened on Wednesday night at the American Bar?” 

“What American Bar?” he said, indifferently. 

“At the Palladium. Well, perhaps not. But you 
seemed to understand yesterday when I was here. I won- 
der whether you’ll understand now— sufficient to make 
you get up and quit this place. You mean to say, you 
haven’t the least recollection of the whole thing— coming 
into the American Bar with Jim Deane— quarreling with 
him about paying for the drinks— and making such a row 
that the barman had to interfere?” 

“ Oh, well, I dare say I had a drop. It’s all right,” he 
muttered. 

“ It isn’t all right ! I suppose you don’t remember catch- 
ing up the knife the barman had been cutting lemon-peel 
wuth — will that bring you to your senses? I don’t know — 
at least I don’t w^arit to be certain — whether you struck 
him with the knife, or whether he stumbled against it in 
the shuffle; but any how we got you hustled out and into 
a cab, and Jim Deane had sufficient nous to give them 
your Wellington Street address w'hen he said you would 
answer to the charge. Now do you understand?— that 
there’s a warrant out against you— and I suppose the 
charge is cutting and wounding, or whatever the lawyers 
call it — and unless you quit out of this place at once they’ll 
be down on you.” 

The w^arning seemed to make little impression. 

“ It doesn’t matter,” he said, listlessly. “It’s all over 
with me now. I’vn done for — they may hang me if they 
like. The luck’s been against me — it’s no use trying any 
longer. I thought I was going to have one more chance; 
and yesterday w^as the day — the 19th of March it 'was my 
mother died — she was the only one that ever cared for me 
—and 'when she died it w^as all up with me — the 19th of 
March — that w^as the day I was going to start afresh— if I 
had had this one more chance. But the luck’s been dead 
against me.” 

“Look here,” said his visitor, roughly, “instead of 
maundering on like that, you’d better wake up and settle 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


m 


Avhere you can hide yourself for a time. Have 3^011 any 
friends abroad? Or where was it you retired to in York- 
shire?” 

He did not answer. He was vacantly staring at noth- 
ing; and the spirit he had drunk seemed to be rendering 
him more and more maudlin. 

“I meant to have gone down to Missenden,” he con- 
tinued, in his husky voice, with his head hanging down on 
his chest. ” I meant to have taken an oath on mj- moth- 
er’s grave —if I had got this last chance — and I’d have tried 
to make up to them for all that’s past. Well, it’s no use 
now. The game’s played out. It’s all over with me.” 

“And what do you propose to do, then?” Mr. Scott 
asked, with obvious sarcasm. “ Sit here till the warrant- 
officer comes? Then you’re up at Marlborough Street. 
Who’s going to become your bail, do you think? Perhaps 
you consider your own recognizances would be enough? I 
don’t imagine the magistrate would, though. I don’t 
think prison life would suit you, my lad, in this cold 
weather; and there would be mighty little Scotch whisky 
going. Come, come, man, wake up, and clear out of this 
neighborhood, to begin with— whatever you do next.” 

He pulled him from the bed on to his legs; and Foster 
obediently began to smooth his ruffled clothes and get 
ready for departure. 

“ What am I going to do next?” he said, in the midst of 
these haphazard preparations. “What do y^ou think I 
should do? What is there left me to do? Well, I am not 
going to tell you. But there’s a way of making it up to 
them. I wish I had done it before, when my mother died ; 
but I thought I had one more chance. Yes, ymu’ll see. 
My wife was frightened that time I went down. I said, 

‘ You're a strong woman, but you’re not strong enough 
for— this.’ ” 

“What are you blethering about now?” the blunt York- 
shireman said. “ Come, let’s settle where you will go to, 
to begin with, when you leave this house. Wandering 
about London streets isn’t the safest thing for you at pres- 
ent.” 

“ What o’clock is it?” he asked. 

“Just after two.” 

“ Then I know where I am going,” he said, with a kind 
of maudlin determination. “You come up to Holborn 
with me, and you’ll see.” 

“Oh, you know, do you? Well, that’s a comfort, at 
any rate.” 

just as they were about to leave, Foster turned and went 
to the cupboard. His companion caught him by the arm. 
“ No, not one drop!” 


374 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“Ob, let me alone!” Foster said, peevishly, and he tried 
to shake off the hold. “It’s medicine I want.” 

“Let me see, then.” 

He opened the cupboard and took out a small vial, which 
he instantly put in his pocket. 

“ What are you taking medicine for?” 

“ When I -can’t get sleep.” 

“What? Sleeplessness? Is that what ails you? You’ve 
been asleep for three days!” 

“ It cures other things,” Foster said, gloomily. “Cures 
everything, for the matter of that.” 

“That’s something like a medicine now,” Scott said, en- 
couragingly. “ Can it cure impecuniosity? for that’s 
what most of us are suffering from since Joe Cantly roped 
Master of Roy — the infernal whelp! Well, they’ll stop his 
playing that little trick again, or I’m mistaken.” 

They were getting down the dark staircase by this time. 
When they got outside, Foster shivered with the cold, and 
his shaking legs could scarcely carry him along. He 
seemed rather terrified, too, at the number of faces re- 
garding him ; he kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, and 
answered his companion in monosyllables. 

As tliey were walking along Holborn, Foster suddenly 
stopped in front of an archway, and held out his hand to 
his companion. 

“Good-bye,” he said, with averted eyes. 

“ What do you mean?” Scott said. 

“I am going down into the country,” he answered; but 
his maudlin resolve had now dropped into a kind of list- 
lessness. 

“Going into a public -house, you mean.” 

“ There is an omnibus starts from here at three,” he 
said, without taking any offense. 

John Scott glanced through the archway, and saw that 
in the middle of the courtyard of the old-fashioned inn 
there was undoubtedly an omnibus standing, though as 
yet the horses were not put to. 

“ Oh, I see. The one that goes down into Buckingham- 
shire? So you are going to your own people down there? 
Well, now, that’s very sensible — the very best thing you 
can do. You be quiet there for a time, and pick yourself 
up again; then you’ll be able to look round and see what 
should come next. The very best thing you can do. Good- 
bye, old chap, and Jim Deane and I will see whether we 
can’t square that blessed barman.” 

So they shook hands, and John Scott went on his way, 
and Foster with a strangely apprehensive look — as if he 
feared to meet some familiar face— passed through the 
courtyard, and entered the tap-room, where he sat down in 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 375 

a dusky corner to wait until the omnibus was ready to 
start. 

In due course of time, the handful of passengers — mostly 
elderly country-folk burdened with innumerable baskets 
and parcels and packages— who were going by the omnibus 
were summoned to take their places; and Foster rose and 
went out too. The first person he saw was the driver— an 
old and familiar acquaintance of his from boyhood up- 
ward. The stout, rubicund, wholesome-looking man 
seemed much surprised and concerned. 

“Lor’ a’ mussy, Mr. Fred, how poorly you do look, to 
be sure. Be you going with us?— ay? — and the box-seat at 
your will and pleasure; but you’ll take a drop o’ some- 
thing before ye start, just to keep the cold out, won’t ye?” 

“ I’m going inside,” Foster said, shivering a little; and 
he got into the vehicle, and went up to the furthermost 
corner, where he huddled himself together. If any of the 
other passengers knew who he was they did not speak; he 
had not even glanced at them. And presently, no doubt, 
they thought that the sickly-looking young man in the 
corner was asleep, for apparently his eyes were closed. 

The old omnibus jogged placidly along, away out by 
Acton and Ealing and Han well, stopping now and again 
to deliver its parcels at the wayside houses. At Uxbridge 
there was a longer halt, and here Foster got out and went 
into the tavern, and drank some hot gin and water. He 
did not, according to usual custom, ask the driver to join 
him; he went back to his corner, and to his stupefied 
meditations. The wintery afternoon was darkening now. 

They went on by Chalfont St. Peter’s and Chalfont St. 
Giles’. The lamp inside the omnibus had been lighted by 
this time, and the dull, orange glow fell on the sallow and 
sickly features of the solitary traveler, who seemed to 
huddle himself away from his fellow-passengers. At 
Amersham, however, he again got out, and had some more 
gin, the landlady, to whom he was known, expressing the 
greatest concern over his altered appearance. Indeed, he 
seemed scarcely to understand what he was doing; and 
there was a furtive look about his eyes — dazed as they 
were — as if he thought he was being watched. 

At length, about nine o’clock at night, he arrived at his 
destination. But he did not go on to his father’s house; he 
alighted at the inn at which the omnibus stopped, and went 
inside, and asked the people, who knew him very well, for 
a bedroom for the night. 

“ Why, Mr. Foster, bain’t you going on home?” the land- 
lord said, in great astonishment. 

“ No, I’m not,” he said, huskily. “I don’t want to dis- 
turb them, I don’t want them to know I’m in Missenden 


876 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


—do you understand ? I’m going out for awhile. Have the 
bed ready by the time I get back.” 

“ And about supper, sir?” said the landlady. 

“ I don’t want any. I haven’t been very well. It’ssleep 
I want.” And therewith he vreiit out into the dark of the 
night. 

But the landlord, who had known the Foster family 
for years and years, was sorely disquieted; he did not 
like* tlie look of the young man’s appearance, nor his 
strange manner; and after a hurried consultation with his 
wife, he put on his hat and went quickly out into the dark- 
ness. He could see the way that Foster had taken, and 
he followed, keeping a certain distance between him and 
the black figure ahead. He went down the main thorough- 
fare of the village; then got away from the houses; and 
then began to ascend the little hill on which the church is 
built. 

Here, away from the yellow light of the windows, one 
could see better; the stars overhead were clear; there was 
a crescent moon, too, down in the south; the friendly 
watcher had no difhculty in following the movements of 
the young man, who had awakened his suspicions, if not 
his alarm. Then he almost took shame on himself when 
he saw what had happened. Foster, feebly and slowly — 
for he seemed very weak — went up the steps of the church- 
yard, clinging to the hand-rail; he opened the little gate; 
he went forward— still more slowly, for there were one or 
two large yew-trees here that made the place dark — ■ 
and knelt down by a grave. It was his mother’s grave. 
And then, the next moment, he had flung himself at full 
length on the slab of stone, with sobs and moans and inar- 
ticulate cries, his face buried in his hands. The man who 
witnessed this terrible outburst of remorse and anguish 
withdrew hurriedly and stealthily. When he went back 
to his wife he would say no word. He put aside her ques- 
tions; but she could see that something unusual had hap- 
pened to him. 

Fred Foster came back to the inn looking more ghastly 
than ever ; his eyes were sunken, and yet furtively appre- 
hensive ; his face was of an ashen gray. He said he would 
go to his room at once; he asked for two or three candles 
in case he should be sleepless; and then he went up-stairs 
and locked himself in. 

“Good-night!” he had said to the girl who took the 
candles up to him; it was his last farewell to the world. 

In the morning, both the landlord and his wife were 
anxious to be relieved of the responsibility of having in 
their house any one who looked so terribly ill — especially 
as his own home was but a short way off; and the former 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


377 


had some idea of himself going along and informing old 
Mr. Foster and his daughter-in-law. And then they 
thought they would wait and see what the young man had 
to say. They waited in vain. They knocked at his door, 
there was no answer. They knocked again, and yet again ; 
the silence that followed was dreadful ; then, taking cour- 
age, they drove in the door. There was a dark figure lying 
on the bed, a curious odor in the air, and an empty vial 
on the dressing-table at the window. This, then, was the 
end. 

And yet a charitable view was taken of the circum- 
stances in wliich the body of this hapless mortal was found. 
It was shown that he had been dreadfully ill, that he suffered 
from sleeplessness ; that the object of his coming to Misseii- 
den was to visit his mother’s grave on the anniversary of 
her death— or, at least, on the day after that; and it was 
suggested as probable that the emotion and excitement of 
such a visit had rendered him wakeful during the night, 
and that he had taken an overdose of the narcotic he had 
been using for some time before. So the verdict of the 
corner’s jury was simply Death by misadventure ;” and 
there was no reason why anj^ one should dispute it; the 
worthless life had been snuffed out ; thereafter — silence. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

IN DARKNESS. 

It w^as more than a year after these occurrences, and it 
was on the morning of the Private View of the Royal 
Academy, that Sabina was in London, and in a room in 
Janie’s house, dressing to go out. In fact, she was already 
dressed; but Janie was an assiduous and officious tire- 
woman, and would hardly let her beloved Sabie out of her 
hands. Again she would j)ut straight the bonnet-strings 
beneath the chin, and adjust the bit of a veil; and then 
she had to fasten on, under the throat, a little bouquet of 
violets that had been presented by Mr. Philip. 

“I’ll show them something,” said Janie. 

“ Show whom?” her visitor asked. 

“The people at the Academy. I suppose there will be 

Miss , and Mrs. , and the Swiss- American girl— 

what’s her name? But I’m nob afraid— not a bit. Do you 
know, Sabie, I do believe black suits you better than any- 
thing; and that’s just a love of a bonnet! And I wish you 
could see for yourself how perfectly your dress fits— I 
mean when you walk; no credit to them, either; it ought 
to be easy enough to fit a figure like yours. Oh, there will 
be plenty of fine gowns there, no doubt; they can always 
attract attention that way; that’s what I was saying to 


m 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


Phil this morning. ‘ They may have as fine dresses as ever 
they please, but where is the one that will show a figure 
like our Sabie’s?’ ” 

“ I thought we were going to seethe pictures,” Sabina 
said, innocently. 

“ Until the afternoon; then it’s the people. We’ll get 
all the stooping and crowding and worrying into corners 
over and done; and then you’ll have nothing to do but see 
and be seen.” 

“For an artist’s wife, Janie,” her friend said, “you 
don’t seem to be going to this Private View in a proper 
frame of mind.” 

“ I see a good many pictures in the course of the year,” 
said Janie, as she stepped back a pace or two, so that she 
could scan Sabina from head to foot. The result of this 
examination was obviously satisfactory. “Yes. They 
may have dresses as stylish as ever they can make them, 
but I know who will be the most distinguished-looking 
woman in that crowd. Come along. It’s too bad of Phil 
not to give up one morning, but he’s very busy; he’ll 
come along as soon as he can in the afternoon. And mind 
you, Sabie, jmu mustn’t let any of the people take you 
away. You’re going with us, mind!” 

“ My dear child, I hardly know a human being in Lon- 
don now 1 I don’t suppose there will be a soul in the place 
who will remember me.” 

“And a good job, too,” said Janie, stubbornly, “for I 
want you all to myself.” 

They got into the hansom that was awaiting them. It 
was a summer-like morning; even here in London the air 
was quite sweet and balmy. They had a pleasant drive in 
by Kensington Gardens and Piccadilly, and eventually 
reached Burlington House a few minutes after eleven. 

As they entered the vestibule, Janie knew that her 
heart was beating a little more quickly than usual. She 
had not heard from Walter Lindsay for a very long time, 
and indeed had every reason to believe that he was still 
abroad ; but once or twice the fancy had struck her that 
perhaps he might, in some unexpected way, turn up at 
this Private View. And the very first thing she did, on 
receiving a catalogue from one of the attendants, was to 
turn quickly to the list of exhibitors at the end of the little 
volume. It had always been Lindsay’s custom to send in 
a water-color to the Academy exhibition, chiefly for the 
sake of obtaining admission on Varnishing Day, which is 
an excellent day for going round the galleries. But to 
Janie’s surprise she found that this year his name was ab- 
sent from the list. She said no word, however. She 


SABINA ZEMBRA. ‘d7d 

kept her disappointment and her anxious surmises to 
herself. 

They had a good steady two hours’ work at the pictures ; • 
and then Janie marched her charge into the luncheon- 
room and secured a couple of seats. For Janie was host 
now, and gave herself airs in consequence. Sabina was a 
visitor from the country, who hardly knew the ways of 
the town, and so she had to be taken about and shown 
things, and treated when occasion served, and petted al 
ways. Janie confessed to herself that she could not un- 
derstand men. There was her husband, who might have 
been all that morning going about with the prettiest 
woman in the place, discussing the pictures with her, and 
talking to her as much as ever he chose, and who might at 
this very moment have been seated at this table making 
merry with them in the modest fashion allowed by 
the Academy; and instead of that, he mast needs keep 
laboring awaj^ at his allegorical and hungr}" virgins. No 
matter; there was the one faithful soul. She had Sab ie all 
to herself. And she was very happy and very confident. 
They might produce what striking costumes they chose; 
she would say, ‘‘Oh, get away with your purchased 
finery; look at my Beautiful One.” 

There came along a tall, good-looking young fellow, 
whom Sabina seemed to recognize, though she could not- 
recollect where sh» had seen him. He shook hands with 
Janie, and bowed to her companion. 

“I had the pleasure of meeting you one night at Mr. 
Lindsay’s, two or three years ago,” he said, seeing that 
she looked puzzled; and then she had a vague remem- 
brance of this being a young associate who made one of a 
pretty group of lads and lasses gathered round the piano 
and singing glees. 

He turned to Janie. 

“By the way, have you heard anything of Walter of 
late?” 

“No, I have not,” she said, reddening a little as she 
looked up — for she did not mention Lindsay’s name before 
Sabina more than she could help. “ I have only his New 
York address; and as he hasn’t answered my last letter, I 
have no idea where he is. I must write again; for,, there 
may have been some mistake.” 

“I heard the other day— I forgot who it was who told 
me— that there was something wrong with his eyes.” 

“What?” she said, looking up again. 

“I hope it is something of no importance,” he said. 

“ But for a landscape-painter to have his eyes go wrong— 
that’s pretty bad luck. It’s a serious thing for anybody ; 
hut for a landscape-painter ” 


m 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


Janie looked a little bewildered and frightened. 

“ Now I remember,” slie said, rather breathlessly, “ that 
the last letter I had from him was written in such a curi- 
ous way— not like his ordinary handwriting. And it was 
very short too; whereas be used to write long letters if ho 
had been silent for some time. Only he did not say a word 
about anything being wrong with his eyes.” 

” Perhaps it is a mistake,” he said. ” These reports do 
get into circulation, and are exaggerated as they are passed 
along.” 

He talked to her a few moments further about varioTis 
matters; but her ej’es were grave and absent. When he 
left she did not bring up Walter Lindsay’s name again. 
Luncheon over, they returned to the pictures, and to the 
crowd, that was now sensibly increasing in numbers. 

The afternoon passed without incident — excepting that 
Sabina encountered her father in this slow-moving as- 
semblage. He came along bland, smiling, and loftilj’’ gra- 
cious, as usual, nodding to this side or that, as he recog- 
nized some one sufficiently distinguished to merit so much 
of notice. Sabina hesitated. They had not met since the 
time he went down to Witstead. She did not advance to- 
ward him, nor did she avoid him; she stood just a little 
bit withdrawn, so that he could treat her as he chose — 
passing on without recognition, if so it pleased him. And 
yet she looked timidly at him. 

“Ha!” said he, as if she were some mere ordinary ac- 
quaintance. “ How de do? How de do?” 

He offered her a couple of fingers, but he scarcely be- 
stowed a look on her; his glance was far ahead of him. 
picking out the great of the land, with whom it pleased 
him to know that he was on such excellent terms. And 
then he went on again, of course taking no heed of Janie, 
who was not a distinguished person at all. 

Philip Drexel had arrived in due course; and Janie took 
the first opportunity she could find— Sabina happened to 
be engaged in conversation with some one who knew her 
— to say to her husband, and rather anxiously. 

“Phil, do you remember the last letter we had from 
Walter Lindsay?” 

“ What about it?” 

“ Do you remember anything peculiar about the hand- 
writing?” 

“No.” 

“They say there’s something wrong with his eyesight,” 
said Janie, in an undertone. 

“Yes, I remember his saying his eyes sometimes both- 
ered him a little.” 

“ Oh, he spoke to you about it?” Janie said, eagerly. 


-S'.4J57iY^ ZEMBRA. 


381 


“Yes, I think it was when he was just back from 
America; there was some talking about sea voyages, and 
he spoke of the glare of the water.” 

“But it was nothing serious?” she said. 

“Oh no, not at all.” 

“ What a fright I got!” said Janie, half to herself; but 
at this moment Sabina returned to them, and so no further 
mention was made of Walter Lindsay. 

Now it was for this Private View that Sabina had pro- 
longed her visit, consequently there was but one more 
evening for these three to spend together before her return 
to Buckinghamshire. It was a very enjoyable evening, 
nevertheless, for the long-talked-of tour in Scotland that 
Philip and his wife had b^een promising themselves year 
after year, had now been definitely fixed for the following 
month, and they had very nearly persuaded Sabina to go 
with them as their guest; so that now there was nothing 
for it but to put a big map on the dining-room table, and 
discuss routes, and indulge in all kinds of imaginary 
sights and pleasures. Janie’s mind ran mostly on mount- 
ains and remote islands set amid lonely seas. Her hus- 
band was interested more in mediaeval architecture and 
ruins and legends and traditions. And he declared that, 
wherever else they might go, they must visit the Braes of 
Yarrow; for he had some notion of stealing a subject out 
of Hamilton of Bangour’s pathetic ballad, and he wanted 
to see what the neighborhood was like. It is to be 
guessed that it was not the youthful lover, in “ his robes, 
his robes of green,” that was in Mr. Philip’s mind, nor 
yet the cruel slaughter done on Yarrow’s banks. These 
things were hardly in his way ; more likely he was think- 
ing of a single female figure, dim and visionary, with a face 
grown white with grief, and eyes hollow and haunted with 
despair. 

“ Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride, 

Return, and dry thy useless sorrow; 

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs; 

He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.” 

Then behind this solitary figure a half- suggested landscape 
— vague and gray and shadowy— a darkened river — the 
fatal bank where she “tint her lover, lover dear”— and 
beyond these the low-lying-hills, somber under the heavy 
sky, and receding into a mysterious gloom. 

“Sabie,” said Janie, the next morning, at the door of 
the cab, “make it a definite “Yes!’ ” 

“I cannot; you are really too kind,” was Sabina’s 
answer. “I should be dreadfully in the way. “Two’s 
company; three’s none. If it was a run down to Brighton, 
that might be all right—but a long traveling through 


383 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


Scotland! And then the expense; young married people 
like you shouldn’t dream of such extravagances.” 

‘‘Then you deliberately mean to spoil my visit to Scot- 
land?” said Janie. 

‘‘ What can you mean?” 

“You know well enough. It has been promised me all 
along that when we went to Scotland you should come 
with me; and what else did I think of? It’s not the old 
abbeys I care for, it's having you with us. And now you 
deliberately say no. As for the expense — well, if Phil says 
he can afford it, and easily afford it, I suppose that is 
enough? And I never expected to hear you, Sabie, talk 
as if you were too proud to accept a small kindness from 
us; it isn’t like you to talk like that — as between you and 
me.” 

“ You goose, I never said anything of the kind,” Sabina 
answered her. good-naturedly. “ Well, I will think over 
it. And if I can bring myself to inflict so much trouble on 
you. then I will go as your maid, and you will let me 
travel third-class.” 

‘•Yes, I think that would do very well,” Janie said, 
gravely. “Only I am afraid in that case Phil would very 
soon forsake the mistress for the maid. He would be too 
much in that third class compartment. Now, Sabie, before 
you go, a definite ‘Yes.’ ” 

“Really I cannot, Janie dear; but I will let you know; I 
must see how old Mr. Foster likes it.” 

“ Within a fortnight you will let me know?” 

“Yes, certainly.” 

“ And then you will at once come up to town, and stay 
with us for a week, and get your traveling things ready?” 

“ I am afraid, if I do go, I shall have to do with what I 
have.” 

“Ah, but you’ll come up and see, Sabie!” her friend 
said, beseechingly. “And we’ll go to the Scotch place in 
Regent Street. Oh, shouldn’t I like to see you in a long 
gray ulster and a Tam o’Shaiiter, at Eustou) Square Station, 
walking up and down the platform. You would look so 
comfortable in it, and it would suit your tall figure too. 
Sabie, I’m going to give you that for your birthday- 
present.” 

“What nonsense! But good-bj^ Janie, good-by. Tell 
the man to look sharp, or I shall miss my train.” 

For several days thereafter Janie expected every morning 
to hear from Missenden, but no message came; and she 
thought she must write again and urge Sabie to give her 
consent. However, something now occurred that changed 
the whole situation of affairs. 

One morning she alid her husband were seated at bre^-k- 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


383 ; 


fast, when a letter was brought to her. It was a biilky 
letter, and addressed in a schoolboy’s hand. She had 
nearly thrown it into the fireplace in the irritation naturally 
begotten by the receipt of a circular. Nevertheless, she 
mechanically opened the envelope and glanced at the con- 
tents. Presently she turned to the signature. It was 

Walter Lindsay ” she saw there, but not in his handwrit- 
ing. 

“Oh, Phil, what’s this?” she cried. 

She began again at the first page, and read rapidly and 
breathlessly. Her husband was looking at her with some 
amazement. Presently he saw her lips begin to quiver ; 
then her eyes filled with tears ; then she rose. 

“Read it, Phil— I— I can’t,’' she stiid, and turned and 
quickly left the room. 

Yet this was no piteous communication that he was 
asked to glance through ; on the contrary, it was written 
with an abundance of good-humor. Lindsay apologized, 
to- begin with, for not having answered her letter long be- 
fore, the fact being that it had been forwarded from New 
York from place to place, until it had finally reached him 
in the “ Kingdom of Galloway.” Then he went on : “ They 
say the wounded hare crawls home to die. Well, it is not 
quite as bad as that with me; but when I tell you that my 
eye- sight has gone from bad to worse, so that now all lean 
tell is the difference betwixt night and day, you will under- 
stand that it was but natural I should come back to the old 
familiar place, where I can imagine my surroundings, if I 
cannot see them. And really I am very comfortable, and 
lead a pleasant enough life. 

“The lad who writes these lines to you is a sharp eyed 
fellow, with an admirable acquaintance with every bird 
and beast you may meet on a morning walk, and an eager 
sportsman, too, from firing at rabbits, which he never hits, 
to guddling trout in the burns; and I am as much inter- 
ested in his perf jrmances as if they were my own. I have 
myself tried a little fly-fishing, with more or less success; 
but expect to be more at home in trolling with the phantom- 
minnow, if I jf3an come across some good-natured fellow 
wlio has a salmon -loch. Then I have books and news- 
papers read to me; and there is no lack of tobacco; and 
then we have long walks round the coast, or upon the hill- 
sides, aifti my companion tells me how many birds there 
were in the covey that got up at our feet, or what kind of 
ships they are that are passing, and how far he thinks the 
horizon is oft*. So you see I have a good excuse for a life 
of inglorious ease; and I have but little right to complain ; 
things might have been a good deal harder to bear. And 


384 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


as regards the operation they speak of at some future time, 
I am trying to prepare myself for the worst. This dark- 
ness came upon me by slow degrees, so that I got used to it 
in a measure ; and I can look forward to a life-long con- 
tinuance of it without much dismay. There were oue or 
two things, in the way of my work, I had thought to have 
attempted— that is the only reflection that does trouble me 
a little at times ; but I don’t know that I should have done 
any better than I had done before ; and what I have done 
must now speak for itself. For one thing, the critics may 
now look on me as a dead man; and they always say nicer 
things about you after you are dead. 

“This is a very egotistical letter, but I thought you 
would like to know exactly how the case stands with me; 
and if jany one should ask about me, you will be able to 
say that I am not at all given over to black moods of de- 
spair. And if you only knew how I long for news of any 
friends in whom you and I are mutually interested, I am 
sure that of your kindness you would send me a line. I 
would have written to you before, to beg that news of you, 
but have been trying hard to get quite thoroughly accus- 
tomed to my position and circumstances, so as to wxdte in 
a fairly contented way. And I think I am content. I 
know I shall be more than content when you send me 
some bit of news. The smallest things told to me are full 
of interest— that there are yellow marsh -marigolds in the 
ditch by the roadside — that a hawk is hovering high in 
the air— that a blue kingfisher has just darted up the 
stream — or that a small white rabbit is lying asleep m the 
sun, just outside the parental burrow — all these little 
things are of the keenest interest, for they are so many 
messages from the great world of life and light and color 
that is all around me, and that I may never see again. So 
you may imagine what news from friends must be. Did I 
say that I would have written before, but that I waited 
until I was quite used to my surroundings? Tell Philip 
that if they should ask about me at the Arts Club, he may 
say that I am not repining over- much.” 

These were the pertinent passages; and Janie’s husband 
was just finishing them when she returned to the room, 
her eyes red with crying. 

“ He is putting a very brave face on it,” said he. “ But 
any one can feel there is more than is set down hepe.” 

“ Oh, it is terrible— it is terrible,” she said, with a bit of 
a returning sob. “ Phil, what are you going to do?” 

“ Well, we shall be in Scotland anyway; don’t you think 
we ought to go and see him?” 

“ Ah, I thought you would say that!” Janie exclaimed. 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 385 

and there was a soft gleam of pride and gratitude in her 
tear -filled eyes. “ And then— as for Sabie?” 

She hesitated for but a moment, and it was herself who 
boldly made the answer. 

“ Well, if Sabie refuses to goto Scotland noiv — she is not 
the woman I took her for.” 


CHAPTER L. 

IN THE KINGDOM OP GALLOWAY. 

Janie was not long left in doubt. 

“ If you think he would like it,” Sabina wTote instantly, 
“ if you think it wmuld be a little break in themonotonj^ of 
his life, or would serve to convince him how much we 
sympathize with him in his dreadful misfortune, I will go 
with you, and gladl}^ How can I ever forget his kindness 
to me in my darkest hours? And if that can never be re- 

E aid surely the least I can do is to show that I remember 
im and am grateful.” 

Then there was a bustle of preparation in the house ; for 
Janie’s ideas about Scotland, and about what w^as neces- 
sary for such a journey, were of a vague description: per- 
haps she would hardly have been surprised if warned to 
take tinned meats with her in case of their being snowed 
up in June, or if Philip had been advised to purchase a 
rifle, on the chance of his getting a shot at a bear. How- 
ever, Philip’s first care was to ascertain that this visit 
would be agreeable to Walter Lindsay; and accordingly 
he wrote, saying they were coming round that way, and 
would like to see him, and might, perhaps, if there was an 
hotel in the neighborhood, stay for a few days, and give 
him of their company if he cared for it. He added that 
Sabina was coming with them. 

The answer showed how gratefully this proposal liad 
been received. 

“I have made my young friend here read your letter 
over several times, for it sounded too good to be true; but 
I am convinced at last ; and you may be sure I understand 
why you think of coming to this out-of-the-way place. 
And we’ll say nothing about a hotel, if you will put up 
with such accommodation as my poor house affords : and 
we will try to give you a Scotch welcome. It is an inter- 
esting neighborhood ; you Avill be able to plan plentv of 
excursions, and you needn’t be afraid that I shall be a 
drag on you— I shall be glad enough when you come home 
in the eA^ening. In the meantime it will be quite an occu- 
pation for me to make preparations for your coming ; if I 
can’t see Avhat is going on, I shall be no worse off than the 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


o8() 

modern general who sits in his tent and conducts a battle 
from the reports sent in to him. I would telegraph for 
Mrs. Eeid to give us her additional assistance, but her face 
would remind Sabina of that sad time; so perhaps we shall 
be better without. By the way, I have once or twice been 
thinking of writing to you about my house and studio in 
London. Once upon a time I made a solemn vow never to 
sell them— because of certain associations. But then I 
was earning a good income; now that I am earning noth- 
ing, it seems a useless piece of extravagance. Probably I 
shall never be in London again ; and> considering this that 
has happened to me, I think I am entitled to absolution 
from that vow; so that if you should chance to hear of a 
likely tenant or purchaser, you might let me know.” 

“Never to be in London again?” repeated Janie, when 
she read tlie letter. “ Does he think he would be such a 
trouble to his friends— a drag on them, he says? But he is 
hopeless because he is alone. When Sabie and j^ou and I 
are all with him, we will try to cheer him up a little. And 
—and I hope Sabie will be kind!” 

Then Sabina was summoned up from the country to join 
in the general and jo^Tul hurry of preparation for depart- 
ure. But when she saw what Janie considered needful in 
the way of rugs, ulsters, water-proofs, and the like— and 
when she discovered that these good people, though far 
from being abundantly rich, were making no scruple about 
providing her with all of these — her conscience smote her. 
The cost of the traveling, too, would be great ; why should 
she become such a burden upon them? The alternative 
was that she should go and ask her father for a renewal of 
the allowance which, he had formally intimated to her, 
still remained at her disposal. Perhaps, in other circum- 
stances, she would even now have backed out of this pro- 
posed holiday, and contentedly gone down home again to 
Buckinghamshire. But she wanted to go to Scotland— if 
her going would be taken as a kindness by one who was 
once kind to her, and was now sorelj^ stricken— and so she 
put her pride in her pocket, wrote to her father, got an 
appointment to meet him at the Waldegrave Club, and 
went there and found him. 

There were two well-known politicians passing through 
the hall while Sabina was standing there, talking to her 
father and explaining her position. AVhen they had got 
into the morning-room, and the glass door had swung be- 
hind them, the one said to the other: 

“ What a remarkably handsome girl that is talking to 
Anthony Zembral— did you notice her?” 

“ Whv, don’t you know who she is?” said the other. 

“No.” 


i^ABJNA ZEMRRA. 


887 


“His daughter, that’s all.” 

“How can that be? I have never seen her at the 
liouse.” 

“Oh, she’s married—or was married— or something^ ” his 
companion said, indifferently. “She doesn’t live with 
family number two. ’ ’ 

Meanwhile, Sabina was being lectured in a cold fashion 
about the consequences of her evil ways. But when it 
came to the question of money there was no difficulty. 
Sir Anthony pointed out to her that it was no wish of his 
that one of his daughters should be dependent on the 
bounty of any one; that her allowance was being punctu- 
ally paid her when she chose to relinquish it from motives 
best known to herself; that it was still at her disposal; and 
that personally he should much prefer that no relation of 
his was in receipt of charity from any source whatever. 
For Sir Anthony liked to speak of his own motives, aims, 
circumstances, and position ; and he seldom failed to con- 
vey to his interlocutor a sense of how far, far away from 
that high standard of integrity and prudence and consci- 
entiousness he or she was. Sabina left the Wal degrave 
Club just a little bit humbled ; but at all events she knew 
that now those kind people who were befriending her 
would not have to pay for her traveling equipment. 

Then there came the joyous morning on which these 
three found themselves walking up and down the wide, 
sounding platform of Euston Station. A carriage had been 
reserved for them; Phdip had stuffed it full of newspapers 
and magazines. And now Sabina, having yielded to 
Janie’s insistence, was clad in an ulster of gray homespun, 
with a Tam o’ Shanter of similar color, and looked more 
like a Highland chieftainess than a Kensington-born young 
woman. 

“Take your seats for the North.” 

To some folk there is more music in these simple words 
than ever was put into any song or ballad. But these 
three travelers were, as a first stage, going no further 
than Carlisle; and, indeed, knew little of what was before 
them. 

“Look here,” said Mr. Philip, taking out his pocket- 
book as soon as they Avere through the tunnels and into 
the clear daylight again. “I Avas talking some little Avhile 
ago to an American, over here for the first time, and he 
told me that Avhat struck him most in England was the 
number of interesting things, historical and otherwise, that 
you find everywhere AAuthin a small compass. Go any- 
Avhere you like, he said— for a morning stroll — and there’s 
always something. Noav I wonder Avhat he would say to 
this little run betAveen Carlisle and Stranraer. I have 


H88 


SABINA ZKMBBA, 


been jotting down some of the points while I was ransack- 
ing the guide-books; and really we shall have our work 
cut out for us before we reach Carnryan Tower. Listen. 
They begin the minute you cross the border. Gretna 
Green — well, that’s nothing. Kirtle Water— that is where 
Helen of Kirkconnell was shot in saving the life of her 
loAw — 

“ Oh, if you take account of all the imaginarj^ stories ” 

his wife objected. 

“My dear,” said he, “it isn’t an imaginary story. It 
was a very actual occurrence — as the gentleman who fired 
the shot found out. The slaying of Burd Helen wasn’t at 
all the end of the incident — a little interview had to take 
place between the lover and the murderer — don’t you re- 
member? 

“ ‘ My sword did draw, 

Stern was our fight on Kirtleshaw, 

I hewed him down in pieces sma*, 

For her sake that died for me.’ 

^hen what comes next? Dumfries. I don’t know how 
we are ever to get away from Dumfries and its neighbor- 
hood. Of course we must drive out and see Ellisland, Burns’ 
farm, and Friar’s Carsetoo; then there’s Lincluden Abbey, 
Drumlanrig Castle, Maxwellton Braes— we’ll maybe find 
another Bonny Annie Laurie tripping over the dew; Craig- 
enputtock, where Thomas the Thunderer prepared his 
bolts before coming up to London; Sweetheart Abbey, that 
Devorgilla built in memory of her husband— thirteenth 
century work that must be— Caerlaverock Castle, Threave 
Castle, Dundrennan Abbey, where Queen Mary spent her 
last night in Scotland, after the battle of Langside ” 

“ Phil,” said his wife to him, “if you ar.e going to give 
so much time to these old abbeys and monasteries, wliat 
do you say to Sabie and me going on to Carnryan and 
waiting for you there? Indeed, if you are going to spend 
so much time on this little bit of Scotland, how are we to 
know anything of the country generally? I thought we 
should see something of the lonely islands in the west, and 
the mountains, and certainly Edinburgh, and Melrose; and 
you wanted to go back by Yarrow — that’s away somewhere 
else ’ ’ 

“Here’s gratitude,” said he, “for my having crushed 
twenty pages of guide-book into ten lines. However, we’ll 
make this compact; you bear with as much architecture 
as you can, and, on my side, when you think a place is 
not likely to be interesting I’ll cut it out— Sabina to be 
umpire.” 

So that was settled ; but both Sabina and Philip knew 
very well that it was no ignorant lack of interest in histor- 


SABINA ZEMBRA, 


381) 


ical or poetical associations that had prompted Janie’s little 
protest; it was that she was anxious to show Walter Lind- 
say that his friends had not forgotten him in his trouble, 
but were quick with their sympathy. 

That night they stopped at Merry Carlisle, and next 
morning were up betimes and on the ramparts of the red 
castle, looking away across the green meadows and the 
winding Eden toward the pale blue line of the Scotch hills 
at the horizon. Then they crossed the Border, and guessed 
at the place where 

“ In ray arras Burd Helen dropped, 

And died for love of rae.” 

They spent two days in and around Dumfries. They went 
on to Castle Douglas. They made their way into the 
famous Kingdom of Galloway, that is “ blest with the smell 
of bog-myrtle and peat.” Finally, in this slow fashion, 
they rested a night at Newton-Stewart, so as to take the 
morning train to Stranraer, and there they found await- 
ing them at the station a wagonette to convey them to 
Carnryan. 

It was a beautiful, soft-aired June morning, and the 
country through which they drove was picturesque 
enough, with occasional glimpses of the sea; but there is 
no doubt that the two womenfolk were very much preoc- 
cupied, not to say anxious and nervous. ^ 

“You’d better say nothing at all,” Philip Drexel had ad- 
vised them. “It would only be an embarrassment. 
Clearly he is determined to put a brave face on it; just 
you talk to him as if nothing had happened.” 

“It seems hard, though,” Janie said, wistfully, “that 
he shouldn’t know how sorry we are.” 

“You can’t say anything well,” remarked Mr. Philip, 
Avho had a little common sense, “ and what is the use of 
saying it badly? And don’t you think he will under- 
stand?” 

When at length they arrived at Carnryan, they found it 
a quite modern place (the old tower, as they afterward 
discovered, was on a promontory facing the sea). The 
bouse was two-storied, wide, and straggling, surrounded 
by fair meadows and woods, and with a high- walled fruit- 
garden at some distance away. The French windows, the 
trimly -kept lawn and flower-pots were all very cheerful 
and pleasant. If they had been expecting anything of the 
grim and gray dignity of an ancient Scottish keep, they 
were speedily disillusionized. 

They alighted from the wagonette, and were received- 
by an elderly man-servant and a smart young maid, who 
informed them that Mr. Lindsay was down in the fruit- 
garden, but would be forthcoming directly, as he would 


390 


SABIN’A ZEMBRA. 


hear the carriage- wheels. So they did not go into the 
house ; they loitered about the front door, looking at the 
shrubberies, and the larch- trees, and the beds of forget-me- 
nots, and at certain small round puff-balls under a distant 
hedge, which they found out to be white rabbits. 

Then Lindsay made his appearance at some way off, 
walking rather slowly, with his hand resting on the 
shoulder of a young lad. His tall form was as erect as 
ever, but his head was bent a little forward, as if he had 
fallen into a habit of listening intently. When he came 
still nearer they could see that there was no appearance 
whatever of his being blind ; there was not even a shade 
over his eyes. But they heard the boy say to him in an 
undertone: . _ 

“There’s a gentleman, sir, and a tall young leddy, and 
anither ane not so tall. ’ ’ 

He came forward, holding out both his hands. 

“ I beg your pardon a hundred times,” he said. “This 
is hardly a Scotch welcome; I should have been at the 
door to receive you, but I fancy Sandy has come a good 
pace, or else I’ve mistaken the time. And this is you, 
Philip— and this is you, Janie— then this must be you ” 

“Sabina!” she said, with a touch of entreaty; she could 
not be left out of the little friendly circle. 

“I ^iim glad you have brought such fine weather with 
you,” he said, cheerfully. “ Didn’t you think the country 
looking pretty as you came along?” 

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful!” Janie’s husband said. The 
two women could hardly speak. It was so piteous to hear 
him talk approvingly of all those summer things around 
them, and still to be so far away from them. It seemed 
almost as if he were imprisoned within some living tomb. 

“Come into the house, then,” he said, as if he would 
himself lead the way. 

And then he hesitated, and put forward his foot a little 
to find where the stone step was ; for the young lad had 
withdrawn a space to leave his master free to talk to his 
guests. At this moment it happened that Sabina was 
next to Lindsay, and could not but see his helplessness. 

“ Will you take my hand?” she said; and she gently put 
her fingers on his arm and guided him into the hall. 

It was her right hand that she put on his arm ; with the 
left she was brushing aside the tears that, in spite of her- 
self, rained down her face^ 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


391 


CHAPTER LI. 

AT CARNRYAN TOWER. 

Janie’s keen desire to visit the nothern isles and hills, 
and Edinbui’gh, and Melrose, and “ the dowie dens o’ Yar- 
row,” had apparently gone away from her mind now; she 
seemed well content with this bit of western Wigtonshire; 
and indeed they found the neighborhood exceedingly pict- 
uresque and interesting. Of course they insisted on Walter 
Lindsay accompanying them on all of their excursions; 
and the attendant who went with them, perched up on the 
box-seat beside the driver, speedily discovered that his 
office was a sinecure. It was “ the tall, young leddy ” who 
had supplanted him, devoting herself entirely to Lindsay, 
and never wearied of telling him of all that was around 
them as they walked along. She did not need to lead him. 
Somehow he knew when she was close by him. Her voice 
was a sufficient guide — perhaps an occasional touch of her 
dress, too. Naturally, when they were stepping into a 
boat, or passing under the archway of some old ruin, she 
gave him her hand ; but ordinarily they merely walked 
side by side — her face turned toward his. 

They were thus strolling along the shore one morning, 
she stooping now and again to pick up a shell or a bit of 
crimson weed, but ever returning to her welcome task of 
describing the fair world around them, and Janie and her 
husband were following some little way behind. 

“If Walter had only his eyesight for ten minutes!” 
Janie said, wistfully. “If he could only see the expres- 
sion of her face every time she turns to him. There is one 
thing surely he must notice— that her voice changes when- 
ever she speaks to him. Whatever she may be saying to 
us— whatever nonsense may be going on— the moment she 
speaks to him it is all gentleness; and you know how soft 
and kind her voice is when she chooses. That is what I 
have said for years and years, ever since I have known 
her: the wav to win Sabie’s love is through her pity. 
Walter Lindsay used to be too well off;, she never could be 
brought to care for him. So I suppose it is true that there 
may be a soul of good in things evil. I dare say if she 
had not come through that dreadful time of trouble, she 
would never have got to know what a true friend he is; 
and I am quite sure, if this misfortune hadn’t befallen 
him, she wouldn’t have the sympathy with him she has 
now. And very little trouble she takes to hide it. If he 
could only see for a second how she watches his face when 
she’s telling him anything-to gather whether he’s inter- 
ested; yes, and the quickness with which she is the first 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


'm 

to get him his stick and his hat when we are coming: out, 
and the eagerness with which she listens to him — and her 
quick approval—ah, well, I don’t know what may come 
of it ; hut apparently Sabie is quite happy whenever she 
is with him.” 

Thus said Janie in her incoherent way ; her husband 
took a more practical view. 

“ What ought to come of it is clear enough. To make 
of two broken lives one wliole one is the sensible thing.” 

“ He is too proud to ask her,” Janie said. 

“Let her ask him.” 

“She can’t. Besides, he would refuse to accept such a 
sacrifice— that is, if he was likely to be permanently 
blind.” 

“ Now, look here,” said Mr. Philip. “That is a subject 
which we can’t speak of to Walter; but you and I may 
speak of it; and I assure you that his determination to look 
at the worst side of the possibilities must have grown up 
when he was living here by himself, and giving way to de^ 

g ression and gloom. Or he may think it right to school 
imself to face the worst that can happen. Very well; 
that may be reasonable enough, but you must remember 
that the chances are really the otlier way. No doubt, 
many of the operations are unseccessful, but the majority 
of them are successful; and you know what the doctor 
said — that everything depended on the general health of 
the constitution. Well, look at Lindsay. He has never 
had a touch of gout or rheumatism or anything of the 
kind all his life long. I say the chances are ml in his 
favor. Of course, the anxiety must be dreadful; and I 
can understand a man in a kind of half despair saying to 
himself that he will rather look forward to the worst, so 
that he may not be wholly crushed if it should happen.” 

“ I wonder what Sabie thinks,” Janie said, absently. 
“ I am afraid to ask her. And I suppose, if he were to be 
permanently blind, it would be too great a sacrifice for her 
to make? I know, if the positions were reversed, it would 
not be too great a sacrifice for him to make ; he would sac- 
rifice anything, everything, for Sabie’s sake. But you 
don’t often meet with a devotion like that. He told me 
himself— but mind, you must not tell Sabie this— that when 
it first occurred to him there was something wrong with 
his eyes, he began to think there would be at least this 
compensation in being blind, that Sabie would always 
have the same beauty for him, that he would always think 
of her as he had first known her. There never has been 
anything that he would not sacrifice, and willingly and 
gladly, for her sake. But I don’t know about her.” 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


393 


“You don’t know about her?” her husband repeated, 
staring at her. “Well, I like that! Oh, of course j^oii 
want me to argue that she is bound to make the sacrifice? 
I am not going to say anything of the kind. But this is 
clear enough— that, if the success of that operation de- 
pends considerably on the general health of the patient, 
our little trip here seems to have done Lindsay a world of 
good. He is in ever so much better spirits than when we 
came.” 

“ That is because Sabie is his constant companion,” was 
Janie’s answer. And I must say for her, that when she 
sets about making much of any one, she does it with a 
will. There is no mistaking it. I remember, in the old 
time, mother declaring that she was a most horrible flirt 
because of the way she was ‘ going on ’ with Walter at his 
own house one night. But she wasn’t ‘ going on.’ When 
she wants to be good to you, as the children say, she cer- 
tainly can, and she doesn’t care who sees it either.” 

“Well, then,” said Mr. Philip, “it is clear we are not 
doing Lindsay much harm by keeping him occupied and 
cheerful; and I have been thinking we might add on two 
or three days more to our visit. We can’t be in the way, 
for he has nothing to do; and the house is big, the servants 
just as obliging and good-natured as they can be. Well, 
now, I was thinking of Monday next; shall we say Wed- 
nesday instead?” 

“ If you will stay to the end of the week, Phil,” Janie 
answered, “ I will give Up any one of the places I wanted 
to see— any one you like.” 

“ The end of the week? Well, we must first ask for an 
invitation. And then we’ll see what Sabina says.” 

But Philip Drexel had himself already cut out one por- 
tion of their traveling programme — that referring to the 
Braes of Yari’ow. He seemed to have lost interest in the 
gray and shadowy figure which, iir his London dreams, 
he had pictured as on Yarrow’s banks, with a world of 
mystic gloom around her. For even as the blood of an 
anaemic person is flushed by fresh air and sunlight and 
exercise, so Mr. Philip’s imagination, under the constant 
stimulus of historical and legend ai’y scenes and associa- 
tions — to say nothing of the brisker health begotten of row- 
ing and climbing and moorland-tramping- had warmed 
into color. Among Lindsay books he had discovered the 
ballad of Fair Annie ; and he had gradually put away from 
him the gray phantom of Yarrow’s banks for this brighter, 
if still pensive figure— that of the forsnLen mistress who 
is bidden to “lace her in green cleiding” and “braid her 
y#‘llow hair,” that she may welcome home the bride: 


394 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


“ Fair Annie stood in her bower door, 

And lookit ower the land; 

And there she saw her ain gude lord 
Leading his bride by the hand. 

“ She’s drest her sons i’ the scarlet red, 

Herself i’ the dainty green; 

And though her cheek looked pale and wan, 

She weel might ha’ been a queen.” 

This was what he was busy with now ; and so the visit 
to Yarrow’s haunted stream was discarded, or at least post- 
poned, and there was so much the more time to add on to 
their .lingering in the pleasant kingdom of Galloway. 

When Philip asked Lindsay to keep them on for another 
week, he wound up his not ineffectual prayer by saying: 

“ And the best thing you can do at the end of the time 
is to come along with us. Moping down here won’t do you 
any good. Come with us for a run through Scotland, and 
then go back to London with us.” 

But Lindsay w'ould not hear of it. 

“I should be a continual drag on you, and you have 
plenty to do. Besides, I have grown familiar with this 
place; I can get about a little even when Jamie isn’t by. 
Of course I shall have to be in London for a brief time ; we 
shall meet then. In the mean while, Phil, my lad, don’t 
talk about your going, there’s a good fellow. I don’t want 
even to talk of it — until it’s over.” 

If these days, then, were ngw numbered, at least they 
were halcyon days. The visitors had not committed the 
usual mistake of English folk in going to Scotland just at 
the very worst time of the year for weather. And how 
quickly the time passed! In the morning, after breakfast, 
they all went outside, for the mignonette was sweet in the 
soft, June air ; and if Janie and Philip generally strolled off 
by themselves, Sabina had found out for herself a warm 
bank at the southern edge of the lawn, where it was pleas- 
ant to sit. Thither she brought Lindsay’s chair, and the 
daily batcli of newspapers; and she could make a shrewd 
guess as to what interested him most when she began to 
read— not the squabbling of Synods and Presbyteries, and 
not the sham objurgation of party politics, but rather the 
reports from the salmon rivers, and accounts of any new 
picture-exhibition in London. Then the wagonette would 
come round to the door, the stragglers would be summoned 
to get ready, and presently they would be driving away 
along the coast, or up and over the wild moorland country, 
Tintil, at midday, they sought out some sheltered spot for 
opening the lunch-basket. The afternoon Mr. Philip 
usually devoted to desperate attempts at acquiring the art 
of fly-fishing from a boat on a small loch hard by. Some- 


SAIUNA ZEMBRA. 


395 


times the others accompanied him ; and it was very little 
the two women knew of the imminent peril they were in 
from the erratic cast of flies, especially when there was a 
bit of a breeze on behind the fisherman. Lindsay, of 
course, could not see; and the saturnine Jamie, sitting at 
the oars, merely sniggered to himself and said nothing ; 
but nevertheless Mr. Philip flogged away with his varie- 
gated cast of Zulu, Blue Dun, and Coch-y bondu ; and if 
he sometimes caught up in his own clothes, or occasionally 
lodged the Coch-y bondu in tlie gunwale of the boat be- 
hind him, these were but trifling mishaps ; and eventually 
his patience and resolution were on most occasions re- 
warded by the capture of a few innocent, small things at- 
tracted by the passage of the drop-fly across the surface. 
Then home to dinner; after which there was smoking and 
chatting and music; sometimes, on these w' arm-scented, 
June nights, they opened the French windows and went 
abroad in the stillness, for there was moonlight now ; and 
it was strange to hear in the silence the occasional soft 
mewing of some distant sea-gull, or the whistle of a cur- 
lew down by the shore. 

On the last night of all these nights, Philip proposed 
that they should walk up to the old tower, to have a last 
look at the coast and the silvered sea. All this evening 
Lindsay had been silent and preoccupied ; Sabina had tried 
her best to cheer him, but without avail; no one had dared 
to speak of the departure on the morrow; and indeed the 
restraint on all of them was only too obvious. So this 
proposal was rather gladly accepted; and, wlien they went 
out into the huslied night, Janie and her husband led the 
way, as was their wont, and Sabina followed with Lind- 
say, her hand just hovering near his arm. 

It was a beautiful night, and the farther they climbed 
the sweet ascent, the more they could see the still, moonlit 
water, and the successive gray promontories running out 
away to the south. There was not a sound ; even the sea- 
birds were silent now; and the whispering of the ripples 
along the shore was too faint to reach them here. And 
Sabina had ceased to try to entertain him ; her own heart 
was not over-light; perhaps she felt there was much to say 
that she could not say. 

When they reached the tower, which was part of the 
ruins of a stronghold built by the Eobert Lindsay who fell 
at Otterbourne, they found that Philip and Janie had gone 
inside and were trying to make their way up to the top. 
Sabina did not choose to follow them; she seated herself 
on one of the big atones lying all about, and Lindsay re- 
mained standing by her aide, bis fingers Just touching her 
dress near the shoulder, that he should know she was there. 


390 


SABhXA ZEMBRA, 


For some little while there was silence; then she said (re- 
curring to her duties for the last time) : 

“ I don’t tliink I ever saw the sea so still. And there is 
a small steamer right in the way of the moonlight — jet 
black it is— it is so strange to see it slowly crossing that 
wide, silver pathway. Where will it be going? Over do 
Ireland?” 

He paid no heed to her question; it was not of the sea 
he was thinking. 

“ So you are really going away to-morrow?” he said, in 
rather a low voice. 

“Yes,” she answered, simply, “ and I have no heart in 
going.” 

Tlien with an effort, she gathered courage to say what 
she wished to say. 

“You must not imagine that I go willingly. I think I 
have been of some little service to you. I think you like 
me to be witli you. And I would like to stay if I could. 
You did not forsake me— in my time of trouble. If I am 
going, I have no heart in going; believe that.” 

The hand that was so near her touched her; it was 
trembling a little. 

“ Sabina, you almost make me speak when I had deter- 
mined to keep silent ; and if I could ” But here he 

paused for a second. “ No, not yet — not as I am now ~I 
cannot. But perhaps hereafter — it may be different; I 
must wait — and then — if it is different — I will come to 
you.” 

She could not fail to understand. 

“You do not trust me,” she said. “ Do you think that 
would make any difference to me?” 

He bent down a little, perhaps it was to listen for the 
least sound of her voice ; it was a habit he had got into 
since his eyesight had left him. 

“Sabina, if the worst were to happen— w^ould you still 
have x)ity on me?” 

For answer she took the hand that was hovering over 
her shoulder, and held it in both of hers, and kissed it. 

“ My best and dearest friend,” she said, and there was 
even a touch of pride in her simple self-surrender, “ I wish 
to be with you always; but, if that were to happen — then 
more than ever.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

AT A PICTURE-SHOW. 

Walter Lindsay neither let nor sold his town-house and 
studio. On all sides he was yiformed that the most skill - 
i ni oculists in the world were to be found in London ; and 


Sabina zembra. 


39'7 


when the time was drawing high for the operation for cat- 
aract to be performed, he repaired thither. Nor did Janie 
and Philip and Sabina leave him much chance of sinking 
into a nervous apprehension and gloom. Nearly every 
evening they went round to his studio— for Sabina w'as 
staying with these good friends just then, and Lindsay 
and they were near neighbors. Sometimes Sabina took to 
him, or sent him, flowers. It was a fair exchange. 

“ Oh, dinna ye mind, love Gregory, 

When we sate at the wine, 

How we changed the napkins frae our necks? 

It’s no sae lang sinsyne.” 

In her time of trouble he had shown her a kindness that 
she treasured in her inmost heart; and now it was her 
turn, in a smaller but in no unwilling way, to pay him 
all kinds of little attentions and send him daily remem- 
brances. They were not undervalued by the recipient of 
them. 

During the week of suspense that followed the operation 
Janie was terribly anxious, Sabina much less so. Indeed, 
her apparent or schooled indifference not only surprised 
Janie, but pained her, and she ventured to remonstrate. 

“ Even if the worst should happen,” Sabina said, calmly 
“ I am quite prepared for it; it will not be so very dread- 
ful.” 

“ Sabie I have you no regard for his fame as a painter?” 

“ I have a greater regard for his love,” was the answer 
(these two being alone together at the time). 

“ What do you mean, Sabie? Would you rather have 
him always dependent on you— is that what you mean? It 
can’t be that you imagine, if he were to recover his eye- 
sight, he would care for you any the less, when you know 
quite well that never in all your life were you looking as 
pretty as you are now— that can’t be it?” 

‘‘Janie, don’t talk as if my interest should bethought 
of at all,” Sabina answered. ‘‘Of course, if Walter gets 
back his sight, that will be a joyful day for all of us. But 
if it isn’t to be — well, we will do what we can to make his 
life pleasant for him, and I for one am not going to be 
downcast, even at the worst. ” 

But she was hardly under such good control on the mo- 
mentous day when the examination was to be made. She 
and Philip and Janie were all in the house; the doctor was 
in the room up- stairs. It had been hinted to them that, 
as far as it was possible for medical skill to judge, there 
was every reason to believe that the operation would prove 
to have been successful; but, notwithstanding that, Janie 
was very visibly agitated, and Sabina, though holding 
herself in restraint, seemed to be listening intently, as if 


SABINA I^EMBRA. 


:^98 

for some foot-fall on the stair, and she started at the small- 
est sound. Janie, indeed, could not keep still. She went 
from one place to another. Not a word w^as spoken by any 
of them. At last she left the room, and crept noiselessly 
up the staircase, and hung about the landing. She could 
hear them speaking within, surely those voices were cheer- 
ful enough ! 

Suddenly the door was opened. 

“ Good-%e for the present.” 

“You’ll tell them, doctor?” 

“ Oh yes; they’re waiting below. They won’t have left, 
depend on it.” 

Then he shut the door, and the next moment was con- 
fronted in the dusk by this poor, timorous, apprehensive, 
speechless ghost. 

“Oh, it’s all right,” said he. “Very satisfactory in- 
deed.” 

Janie flew down the steps — how, she could never after- 
ward understand— and rushed into the room. 

“ Sabie! Sabie!” 

And then her arms were round her friend’s neck, and 
she was kissing her on one cheek, and the other cheek, 
again and again and again. It was all the' message she 
could deliver —but it was understood between those two. 

+ sie * * * >|c 

A long time after that — last June, indeed— it was an- 
nounced that on a certain day there would be opened in 
Bond Street an exhibition of water-color drawings and 
sketches, chiefly of the river Shannon ; and on the previous 
Saturday there was a Private View, at which a large num- 
ber of the artists’ friends were assembled. It was a goodly 
display, considering that most of the series had been pro- 
duced within eighteen months— though some of the draw- 
ings were of an earlier date. It was one of these other 
ones that seemed to have caught the fancy of a noble and 
gracious lady who would insist on Lindsay going round the 
room with her; and so profuse were her praises that, in 
order to get away from them, he said : 

“ Yes, I like that one myself, for it was just underneath 
those trees that I caught a twenty-eight-pound salmon.” 

“ Really now !” said this good lady; “ how very interest- 
ing! Twenty-eight pounds— that must have been a large 
fish. What did you do with it?” 

“ I sent it to Sabina Zembra.” 

“ Sabina Zembra?” she said, inquiringly. “ Who is 
that?” 

“Don’t you know? There she is, over in that corner, 
talking to the little old gentleman with tlie ear-trumpet,” 
said Lindsay, looking toward a tall, young woman in a 


SABINA ZBMBRA. 


890 


dress of silver-gray plush, with a beef -eater’s hat of the 
same material, and with one deep crimson rose at her 
breast. 

“ But that is your wife,” said the noble person, peering 
through her eye glasses. “ A.h, I see. That washer name, 
was it? What a very extraordinary present to send a 
young lady !” 

“What else could I send her — from the Shannon?” he 
asked. 

At this moment Janie came along. 

“ It’s all right,” she said, in an undertone; “Phil has 
been down to some place in Piccadilly, and got a room 
where we shall be by ourselves. Sabie and I will follow 
whenever we see you going to the door. And Phil is wait- 
ing outside.” 

The consequence of this maneuver was that, a few min- 
utes thereafter, these four were seated at lunch in a pri- 
vate room of a well-known restaurant ; and they seemed 
rather glad of this respite from their public duties. 

“When I first thought of having an exhibition of this 
kind,” Lindsay said, “ my wildest hope was that that young 
woman there would condescend to come to the private 
view. I little expected to see her mistress of the show.” 

“ I assure you that it is remarkably nice,” Sabina said. 
“ You’ve no idea what pretty things have been said to me 
this morning. And do you think I was going to make any 
protest? That wouldn’t have been business-like. I felt 
far more inclined to say, ‘ Good gentleman, or pretty lady, 
your opinion is quite correct; and will you buy?’ ” 

“You mercenary wretch ! However, we’ve little cause to 
complain on that score ; and I mean to make our holiday 
this year a thorough-going one. I suppose you have got 
everything ready for Monday morning, Philip— rods and 
nets and everything?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“ Oh,” continued Lindsay, “ I heard a pretty story about 
you the last time I had to run down to Wigtonshire. The 
boy Jamie says that when you were fishing from the boat 
you were continually catching up on the gunwale behind 
you. Now how did you manage that? You must have 
doubled the flies right behind. And do you know you 
were whisking them past people’s faces.” 

“ Can the boy Jamie use a rod himself?” Mr. Philip 
asked. 

“ Oh yes, Jamie can throw a flv.” 

“ Then perhaps it would have been better for the young 
ruffian to have given me some advice instead of treasuring 
up a tale about it. ” 

“ Never mind; we’ll show you how to lift your line be- 


400 


SABINA ZEMBRA. 


hind you when we’re all back in Galloway again. iTes^ 
and there’s some nobler sport for you, my lad, when we 
go on to Cromarty ; wait till you find yourself fighting a 
thirty-pounder— then Janie will have to be by to give a 
scream when you bring him to bank.” 

Coffee and cigars were brought in ; but the little party 
could not idle here much longer; the artist had to go back 
to receive his patrons and friends. As they were going 
down-stairs he said ; 

“ Look here, Mr. Phil, I reckon I shall see you to-morrow 
some time or other, but if I don’t, mind you come a bit 
early on Monday morning. Euston Station, 9.45 — that’s 
the v^atch word : and then, 'Take your seats for the NorthP ” 

It only remains to be added that Sir Anthony Zembra, 
who has at length had the honor of office conferred on 
him, came to the show that afternoon, and was vastly 
complimentary. At the dinner-tables which he adorns 
with his handsome presence, he is quite fond of talking of 
his son-in-law ; and at the last banquet of the Royal Acad- 
emy on being called on to answer for the House of Commons, 
he made pointed reference to his own personal and im- 
mediate association with Art. 


[THE END.] 



OTTT 03F» T3ESES 

MAny a family has been taised by the getmiae philantrop^^ 
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toe dirt of lo^en, or hall or parlor, any house can bo quickly 
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878 Only a Clod 20 

879 Sir J asper’s Tenant 20 

880 Lady’s Mile 20 

881 Birds of Prey 20 

882 Charlotte’s Inheritance 2(J 

883 thidwdn 20 

886 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

887 A^jM«igG*WDrW 20 

888-'''1SlSuiTC-il«yal 20 

889 Just As 1 Am 20 

8'JO Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

892 Hosts ges to Fortune 20 

893 Fent on’s Quest 20 

894 The Cloven Foot * .20 


BY ROBERT BURNS 

430 Poems 

BY REV. JAS. S. BUSH 

113 More Words about the Bible 20 

BY E. LASSETER BYNNER 

100 Nimport, 2 Parts, each 15 

102 Tritons, 2 Parts, each 36 

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526 Poems 20 

BY ROSA NOUCHETR CAREY 

660 For Lilias 20 

BY WM. CARLETON 

190 WUly tt<tHTy 2C 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding 10 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake 10 

822 The P.irty Fight and Funeral 10 

823 The Midnight Mass 10 

824 PhilPurcel 10 

825 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Going to Munorth 10 

827 Phelirn O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar 10 

829 Neal Malone kj 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Adventures 20 

481 Through the Looking-Glass 20 

BY “ CAVENDISH ” 

422 Cavendish Card Essays 15 

BY CERVANTES 

41? Don Quixote 30 


LOVELL^S iriS^^ABY, 


119 


183 

277 

287 

420 

423 

458 

405 

474 

476 

568 

693 
651 
669 
689 
692 

694 

695 

700 

701 
718 
720 
727 
730 
733 

738 

739 

740 
744 
762 
764 
800 
801 

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804 
806 

807 

808 

809 

810 
811 
812 
815 


9 

24 

87 

418 

437 

683 

686 

722 

639 


429 

462 

612 

617 

631 

667 

672 

715 

745 

T60 


fiY i. CHAMPNEY i 

Bourbon Lilies 20 486 


BY BERTHA M CLAY 


Her Mofcfeer^Sin 20 

Dora Thorne^^^^ 20 

Beyoj>^^af(l(3n 20 

A Broken Wedding-Ring. 20 

Repented at Leisure 20 

Sunshine and Roses 20 

The Earl’s Atonement 20 

A Woman’s Temptation. . . 20 

Love Woi'ks Wonders 20 

Fair but False .10 

Bet weext-Xwo-Bins 10 

At War with Herself 15 

Hilda 10 

Her Martyrdom 20 

Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

The Shadow of a Sin 10 

WetUiuLattil-FgTtTfd 10 

In CupiTs Net 10 

Lady Darner’s Secret 2^ 

A Gilded Sin 10 

Betw;eeP- Two 20 

For Another’s Sin 20 

Romance of a Young Girl 20 

A Queen Amongst Women . . .10 

A Golden Dawn • . 10 

Like no Other Love 10 

A Bitter Atonement 20 

Evelyn’s Folly 20 

Set in Diamonds 20 

A Fair Mystety 20 

Thoms and Orange Blossoms 10 

Rom««eeof a BlacPVeil 10 

Love’s Warfare 10 

Madolin’s Lover - s-l . . . 20 

FrookJOnttyle^Grloom 20 

Which Loved Him Best 10 

A True Magdalen 20 

The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

Prince Charlie’s Daughter 10 

A Golden Heart 10 

Wife in Name Only 20 

A W'; man’s Error 20 

BY WILKIE COLLINS 

The Mtojjstertb, Part 1 10 

Thft-ltfC^stonejPgjA II 10 

mijp \r^\ii 20 

Heart and Science 20 

“LSay-No” 20 

Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

The Ghost’s Touch 10 

My Lady’s Money 10 

The Evil Genius 20 

The Guilty River 10 


494 

500 

603 

608 

514 

620 

522 

525 

528 

541 

546 

550 

561 

571 

578 

580 

691 

610 

619 

622 

626 

628 

630 

633 

6C6 

643 

646 

649 

652 

656 

658 

661 


6 

5S 

865 

378 

441 

463 

467 

471 

484 

488 

491 

501 

506 

512 

517 

519 

524 

527 

529 

532 


BY HUGH CONWAY 
CaHwl'"H!lUirr’. 

Paul VargaaL a Mystwy 

A IFatniljntiratr 

Story of a Sculptor 

Slings and Arrows 

A jCasdwKirSTn 

LivwguuLUfiad ■ 

Someboily’s Story, / 


15 

15 

.10 

.10 

.20 

.10 

.10 

.20 


539 

543 

548 

553 

559 

562 

570 

576 

687 

601 


on 

10 lUU 


BY THOMAS CAELYLE 

History of Freixli Revolution, 2 

T’arts, each 25 

Fast and l’re«;nt ?,0 

The Diamond NcckJacc ; and Mira- 

bean 20 

Chartism 20 

Siirt> >v Rosartus 20 

Early Kings of Norway. . 20 

Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

Goethe, and Miscelh. neons Essays.. .10 

Life of Heyne 15 

Voltaire and Novalis 15 

Heroes, and Hero Worship 20 

Signs of the Times 15 

German Literature 15 

Portraits of John Knox 15 

Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

“ “ ‘ Vol. II 20 

“ “ “ Vol. Ill ..2U 

“ “ ‘ Vol. IV 20 

“ <• “ Vol. V 20 

“ “ “ Vol. VI 20 

‘ “ Vol. VII 20 

“ “ “ Vol. VIII 20 

Life of John Sterling ,.20 

Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

Life of Schiller 20 

Oli’^w Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

Vol. II 25 

“ “ Vol. Ill 25 

Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays. 15 
Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 
says 15 

Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 


BY J. EENIMOEE COOPEE 


The Last of the Mohicans 

Th^jgj 

TfieTaithfinder 

Homeward Bound 

Home as Found 

The Deerslayer 

The Prairie 


The I’ioncer 

The Two Admirals 

The Water-Witch 

The Red Rover 

The Pilot 

Wing and Wing 

Wyandotte 

Heidemnauer 

The Headsman 

The Bravo 

Lionel Lincoln 

Wept of Wish -ton- Wish 

Afloat and Ashore 

Miles Wallintrford 

The Monikins 

Mercedes of Castile 

The Sea Lions 

Tlte Crater 

Oak Openings 

Satanstoe 

The Chain-Bearer ...... 

Ways of the Hour 

Precaution 

Redskins 

i^ackTier 


'k.. 


20 

,20 

20 

20 

20 

30 

20 

25 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

2tf 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

25 

2C 


i.,OT:EliI/S IiIKKAlti 


BY VICTOR CHERBULIEZ 


242 Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

167 Auti-Slavery Days 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

23 Poems 30 

BY K;NAHAN CORNWALLIS 

409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

BY R. CRISWELL 

860 Grandfather Lickshingle 20 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

845 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 

and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

815 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DATJDET 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob .25 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

1 0 OliAPcr-TwiSt.' 20 

38 A Tale of Two' Cities 20 

76 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pi(ikwiok PaperS^^ Parts, each 20 

140 The Cricket on thE'HwnftTT 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each. . . 15 

150 Barnaby Budge, 2 Parts, each 16 

158 David CopperfiCld, 2 Parts, each 20 

170 Hard Times 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, each. . . .20 

210 American Notes 20 

219 Dombey ancT Son, 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little* Ddfrit, 2 Parts, each 20 

228 Our Mutual EriehcC 2 Parts, each ... 20 

231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each. . . .20 

234 Pictures from Italy 10 

237 The Boy at Jjugby 10 

244 BleakHSuse, 2 Parts, each 20 

246 Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

261 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

273 Sketches'by 'BtKZ 20 

274 A Christmas CStol, etc 15 

282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 

288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

302 No Thoroughfare 15 


^7 Tales of Two Idle Apprenti 


BY THE DEAN OF ST. PADL’S 


431 Life of Spenser 1® 

BY C. DEBANS 

476 A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 2B 

BY THOS. DE QDINCEY 

20 The Spanish Nun 19 

BY CARL DETLEF 

27 Irene; or. The Lonely Manor 20 

BY PROF. DOWDEN 

404 Life of Southey 10 

BY JOHR DRYDEN 

498 Poems 30 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 

68 PprMa: . 20 

76 Mi)llyBawn 20 

78 Phyllis 20 

86 Monica 10 

90 Mrs. GebjOtrey 20 

92 Aii;y.FaiEy. Lilian 20 

126 Loys, Eord Beresford 20 

132 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

162 Faith and Unfaith 20 

168 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

284 Rogsmoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

530 In Durance Vile 10 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ 0 Tender 

Dolofer” 20 

621 A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

624 A Passive Crime 10 

721 Lady Branksmere 20 

735 A Mental Struggle 26 

737 The Haunted Chamber 10 

792 HerfWeek’s Amusement 10 

802 Lady Val worth’s Diamonds .20 

BY LORD DUFFERIN 

95 Letters from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I ..20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II, .... 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

BY GEORGE ELIOT 

56 AdaurBcrtCT^ Parts, each, 15 

69 AnfOyr BarCSn 10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

79 Ii©mohr,'^T’o.rts, each 15 

149 JaTrBF*,R»peirtance 10 

151 FeHjr*H«4t 20 

174 Middlemarch; 2 Parts, each !W 

195 Da niel Be linda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy, and other Poems20 

207 TheMill'bn the Floss, 2 Parts, each.l5 

208 Brother Jacob, etc 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book 20 


LOVELL'S LIBEARY 


BY MSS. ANKlE EDWARDES 


J61 A (a^irtQn girl 20 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

203 Disarmed 15 

663 The Flower of Doom 10 1 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

373 Essays 20 

ENGLISH MEN OE LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

348 Bimyan, by J. A. Fronde 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Nichol 10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward 10 

424 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morison 10 

226 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison. 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Synionds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden 10 

431 Spencer, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. . 10 

344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope. . .10 

410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 

BY B. L. EARJEON 

243 Gautran ; or, House of White Shad- 
ows 20 

6.54 Love’s Harvest 20 

RIO Golden Bells 10 

674 Hine of Hearts 20 

BY HARRIET EARLEY 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

BY E. W. EARRAR, D-D. 

1 9 Seekers af ter G od 20 

50 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marf iace-in H-igh 20 

BY I4RS. FORRESTER 

760 Fair Women 20 

818 Otfbr ' A 'gnin ...20 

843 My Lord and My Lady . . .20 

844 Dolores 20 

850 My Hero 20 

859 Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanitaa 10 

861 Diana Carew 20 

862 From Olympus to Hades 20 

863 Rhona 20 

864 Roy and V iola 20 

865 June 20 

866 Mignon 20 

167 A Young Man’s Fancy 120' 


BY FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA 


MOTTE FOUaUE 

711 Undine 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

i 380 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 18 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen 2( 

856 Golden Bells It 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

1 22 Ameline de Bourg 15 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

485 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FRODDE 

348 Life of Bunyan 10 

BY EMILE GABORIAD 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money 20 

129 I n Peril^ol |ps-^ e 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

268 File No. 113 ...20 

BY HENRY GEORGE 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

390 The Land Question 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golden Shaft 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe's Fanst 20 

343 Goethe's Po j in s 20 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

61 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and Poems 2t 

BY MRS. GORE 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 20 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 F’h1iy-8Bale.s, Illustrated 2ft 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 i 1 istory <if the M or mons 15 

BY MARION HARLAND 


107 Housekeeping and Horncmaking.. . .15 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India a'^d Ceylon 


20 


LOVELL^S LIBRARY, 


606 


813 

848 

876 


371 


15 


43 

157 


BY F. W. HACKLANDER 

Forbidden Fruit 

BY H. EIDEB EAGGARI) 

King^ Solomon’s Mines 

SHe 

The Witch’s Head 


BY EDWARD HOWLANl 


BY A. EGMONT HAKE 


BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

L’Abbc Constantin 

BY THOMAS HARD? 


Romantic Adventures of a Milk 


749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 
COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 


7 

137 


Clytie 20 

Cruel London .20 


BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


37C 

376 


Twice ToId''Trnes , . . . 
Grandfather’s Chair 


BY MARY CECIL HAY 


466 

666 

690 

787 


Under the Will 10 

The Arundel Motto 20 

Old Myddleton’a Money 20 

^Tcked^M 10 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
ism 15 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

Woman agamst Woman 20 

A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

Poems 30 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

38 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

\i The Tricfe of the Greeks .20 


583 


533 


356 


709 

743 


73 


511 


20 

742 

Social Solutions, 

Part I 


747 


44 

Part II.. 


758 


44 

Part III 

‘^0 

762 

(i 

44 

Part IV 


765 


44 

PartV 

*>0 

774 


44 

Part VI 


778 


44 

Part VII 


782 

(8 

44 

Part VIII 


786 

i< 


Part IX 

20 

788 

a 

(4 

Part X 


791 

ti 

44 

Part XI 


795 

(4 

< 4 

Part XII 

.20 


BY MARIE HOWLAND 


534 

Papa’s Own Girl 


.23 


BY JOHN W. 

HOYT, LL.D. 

"lO 

635 

Studies in Civil Service 

.20 


BY THOMAS HUGHES 


30 


61 ToM'BrowtT^s'gChooTITays 20 

186 Tom Brown at Oxf2j;d^2 Parts, each . 15 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

309 Life of Hume. 10 

BY STANLEY HiJNTLEY 

109 The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

784 Les Miserables, Part 1 20 

784 “ “ Part II 20 

784 “ “ Partin 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

364 Life of Scott 20 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 


147 Thts fiketch Ro otr. . 
198 Tales of a Traveller 


..20 

20 


199 Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part I ' S 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 


.20 

20 


Part II 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey . . .16 

2.36 Knickerbocker History of New york,20 

249 The Crayon Papers .20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

281 Bracebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

fiC9 Astoria 20 

301 Spanish Voyages 20 

305 A Tour on the Prairiea .10 

.308 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

311 Captain Bonneville 20 

314 Moorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies 10 

BY HARRIET JAY 

17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

44 Rassclas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

754 A. Modern Midas 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

Poems 


LOYELJ^S IJBRART. 


BY EDWAKii KELLOGG 


111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

106 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 


BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each . . 15 


BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

30 The Hermits 20 

04 HspatiiV d'Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

f26 Atistin Eliot 20 

72b The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn 30 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the Whaler 20 

322 Mark Seaworth 20 

324 Round the World 20 

335 The Young Foresters .« 20 

337 Saltwater 20 

33S The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog 40 

BY A. LA POINTE 

445 The Rival Doctors 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 A Brighton Night 20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love 25 

741 Lorinier and Wife .20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorrequer 20 

7S9 Charles O’Malley. 2 Parts, each 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each . . 20 

BY H. W LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

163 The Happy Man 10 

719 Rory O'More 20 

849 Handy Andy 10 

BY^'^OMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

blV me cruise of the Black Prince 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flaehr” 20 


BY E. LYNN LYNTON 


275 lone Stewart SO 

BY LORD LYTTON 

1 1 TlTe-Got ning Rac e .... 10 

12 Leila .10 

31 Tin-nacS A.T 20 

32 The Haunted House 10 

45 Alices— A - Sequet to -Emest-Maltra- 

' vers 20 

55 A Str.ougo Story 20 

59 r last-l lAyjM>£-liompen-. 20 

81 Zanoni 20 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each.. 15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Laiiy-of-LyrmMrv 10 

I 128 Money 10 

I 152 Richelieu 1C 

HiO Rienzi, 2 I’arts, each 15 

j 176 I'elham 20 

204 Eugene /Vram. 20 

22.2- The Disowned 20 

240 KenQUaLphiltogly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

2!7 Deverenx 20 

250 The Caxtous, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucretia 20 

255 Last of the Barons, 2 I’arts, each ... 15 

259 The Parisians. 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 HaraUl, 2 I’arts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine ... 15 

317 Pausanias ••.15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

333 Lays of Ancient Rome 2C 

BY C. MARLETT 

771 TUe-OUi Mam’sellels Seer^. .... 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

I 212 The Privateersman 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 15 

354 Loom and Lugger 20 

357 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

363 For Each and For All. 15 

372 Hill and Valley 15 

379 The C’liarmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

395 Sowers not Ren pers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

BY W. S. MAYi> 

76 The Berber 20 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 DukeofKandos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 


BY J. H. McCarthy 

llS An Outline of Irish History !• 


lovelt/s library, 


BY JTTSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 


#78 Maid of Athens. 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

831 Lucile 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 ParacfceLost 20 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 LaUaRookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon 10 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MDIR 

312 Golden Girls 20 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India ; What Can It Teach Us ? . . 20 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 

197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune. 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 Jhhn HaUfax 20 

436 MfsS Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

BY FLORENCE NEELY 

664 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 


BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong U ses of the Bible . . 20 

BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

376 Science at Home 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 NoNewThing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 N octes Ambrosianai 30 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 


BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The Ladies Lindores 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 80 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary 10 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

831 The Son cf his Father 20 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda, 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each 20 

387 Princess Nai)raxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othmar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa 20 

855 Pascarel 20 

BY. MAX O’RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Miltou . . . . 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of tlie Darrells 20 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 26 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 16 

438 The Assignation and Other Tales . . 15 

447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scion- * 
tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scotty Chiefs, Part 1 20 

ScottiSlPGfciefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddene of Warsaw- 25 

BY £ F. POST AND FRED. C. 

' LEUBUCHER 

838 The George- Hewitt Campaign. , . .20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 


LOVELL^B LIBRART 


BY CHARLES READE 


28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

416 A PrrTTnuB 20 

769 FoftHWayr 20 

773 Pufe~¥ettr8eli4u- hia glao»i i ^ 20 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Frec kl e T.^ ..20 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY “ RITA ” 

566 Dame Durden 20 

699 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrooke 20 

BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Aiden 15 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

411 Children of the Abbey 30 

BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 

837 Marked ‘ ‘ In Haste ” 20 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

329 Poems 20 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple 10 

BY JOHN RUSKIN 

497 Sesame and'LUiesVr^N 10 

505 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510 Ethics of the Dust 10 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

521 Seven Lamps of Architecture 20 

637 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing 15 

642 Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

566 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

572 “ Vol. II 20 

577 “ Vol. Ill 20 

589 ‘‘ “ Vol. IV 25 

608 “ “ Vol. V 25 

698 King of the Golden River 10 

6^3 U nto this Last 10 

627 Munera Pulveris 15 

637 “ A Joy Forever ” 15 

639 The Pleasures of England 10 

642 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on Art 15 

677 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

665 Mornings in Florence 15 

668 St. Mark’s Rest 15 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England 15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 “ Our Fathers Have Told Us” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Vald'Arno. 15 

688 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fors Clavigera. Part 1 30 I 

708 “ “ Part 1 1 30 

713 “ “ Part HI 30 

714 “ “ Part IV 


BY W. CLARH RUSSELL 


123 A Sea Queen 20 

399 John Holdsworth 20 

833 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

834 J ack’s Courtship 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

816 The Broken Seal 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

136 The Tower of Percemont 20 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

27 Social Etiquette 15 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

710 Picciola 10 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 

145 IvfwittOe^ Parts, each 15 

359 Lady of the Lake, with Notes 20 

489 Bride of Lammermoor ..20 

490 Black Dwarf ....10 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

495 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

499 Heart of Alid-Lothian 30 

502 Waverley . . .20 

504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak 30 

515 The Pirate 20 

536 Poetical Works 40 

544 Redgauntlet 25 

551 W oodstock . . . ■. 20 

557 Count Robert of Paris 20 

669 The Abbot 20 

575 Quentin Durward ..;.... 20 

581 The Talisman 20 

586 St Rnnn.n’s,Well.^ 20 

595 Anne of Geiersteiu 20 

605 Aunt Margaret's Mirror 10 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate 15 

609 The Mon astery 20 

620 G«yTffaftTie«iig 20 

625 Kenilworth 25 

629 The Antiquary 20 

(«2 Rob Roy 20 

635 The Betrothed 20 

638 Fair Maid of Perth 20 

641 Old Mortality... 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Fleurette 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Burns 10 

BY MARY W. SHELLEY 

I 5 Frankenstein ...10 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

k'iii Complete Poetical Works 30 


LOVELL'S LIBRARY 


BY S. SHELLEY 

191 The Nautz Family 20 

BY J. H. SHORTHOITSE 

832 Sir Percival 10 

BY J. P. SIMPSON 

126 Haunted Hearts 10 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

640 The Partisan i 30 

648 Mellicb ampe 30 

653 The Yemassee 30 

657 Katherine Walton 30 

662 Southward Ho 1 30 

671 The Scout 30 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin 30 

677 V asconselos 30 

680 Confession 30 

684 Woodcraft 30 

687 llichard Hurdis 30 

690 Guy Rivers 30 

693 Border Beagles 30 

697 The Forayers 30 

702 Charlemont 30 

703 Eutaw .30 

706 Beauchampe 30 

BY EDITH SIMCOX 

613 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

BY HAWLEY SMART 

780 Bad to Beat 10 

BY SAMUEL SMILES 

426 Self-Help 25 

BY A. SMITH 

694 A Summer in Skye 20 

BY F. SPIELHAGEN 

449 Quisiana 20 

BY GOLDWIN SMITH 

110 False Hopes 15 

424 Life of Cowper 10 

BY LESLIE STEPHEN 

396 Life of Pope 10 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

BY J. GREGORY SMITH 

65 Selma 15 

BY S. M. SMUCKER 

248 Lif^ of Webster, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY STARKWEATHER AND 
WILSON 

461 Socialism 10 

BY STEPNIAK 

173 Underground Russia 20 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

767 Kidnapped 20 

768 Stmnge Case of Dr. Jdryll and-Ab:. 

Hyde 10 

769 Priff&rt)tt<i 10 

770 The Dynamiter 20 

798 New Arabian Nights 20 

819 Treasure Island • • ■ '20 


BY HESBA STRETTON 

729 In Prison and Out 20 

BY EUGENE SUE 

772 Mysteries of Paris, 2 Parts, each . . .20 
776 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 


BY DEAN SWIFT 

68 .Gulliver’ s Travels 20 

BY CHAS. ALGERNON SWIN- 
BURNE. 

412 Poems 20 

BY J. A. SYMONDS 

361 Life of Shelley 10 

BY H. A. TAINE 

442 Taine’s English Literature ......... 40 

BY LORD TENNYSON 

446 Poems 40 

BY W. M. THACKERAY 

141 Henry Esmond 20 

143 Denis Duval . . 20 

148 Catherine 10 

156 Lovel, the Widower 10 

184 Barry Lyndon 20 

172 Va ffityFa l T 30 

193 History olPendenni8,-2J?arts, each.. 20 

211 Tife-Njawcomeg, 2 Partsy'^eh- 20 

220 Bca^k-c^^TwbsTrV;: 10 

229 Paris Sketches 20 

235 Adventures of Philip, 2 Parts, each . . 15 

238 The Virginians, 2 Parts, each 20 

252 Critical Reviews, etc IG 

256 Eastern Sketches 10 

262 Fatal Boots, etc 10 

264 The Four Georges : 10 

280 Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 

283 Roun dabout Papers 20 

285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 

286 Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 

296 Men’s Wives 10 

300 Novels by Eminent Hands, 10 

303 Character Sketches, etc 10 

304 Christmas Books 20 

306 Ballads 15 

307 Yellowplush Papers 10 

309 Sketches and Travels in London .... 10 

313 English Humorists . . . ; 15 

316 Great Hoggarty Diamond .10 

320 The Ro.so and the Ring 10 

BY JUDGE D. P. THOMPSON 

21 The Green Mountain Boys 20 

BY THEODORE TILTON 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part 1 20 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part II 20 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

133 Mr. Scarborough’s Family, 2 Parts, 

each 16 

251 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope.20 

344 Life of Thackeray 10 

367 An Old Man’s Love 15 

BY J. VAN LENNEP 

468 The Count of Talavera 20 



The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing’ ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tiou is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
cure of suffering women. It is not re- 
commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
most perfect Specific for woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, invigorating 
tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
eit\ seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a soothing and strengthen- 
ing nervine, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 

carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless in Its effects in any 
condition of the system. 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure tor the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
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ness,” anteversion, retroversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
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inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, acconr panied with internal heat. 

In pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and othe 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. It its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the sufferings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dj^spepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice- until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
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‘^Favorite Prescription” is the 

only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle- wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Liarge bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

j^“Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Associationi 
NO. 66S MAlIt STBS£T, buffalo^ N, T, 




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